


Arcanum: Fatum

by Akatsuki_Celeste



Series: Arcanum [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, Drama, Epic, F/M, Implied abuse, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 147,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akatsuki_Celeste/pseuds/Akatsuki_Celeste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yllia Surana thought that when she left the Circle of Magi she'd finally be free to live her own life. But when the elven mage finds herself one of only two remaining Grey Wardens in a Blight-cursed land, she discovers that destiny may have dealt her a far crueler hand. Torn between her love for two men and their duty, she and her companions must find a way to bring down the Archdemon and save Ferelden - before they lose it all.</p>
<p>Born into a bloodline of magic, Garrett Hawke has spent all twenty-five years of his life as an apostate. After the death of his father, Garrett swore that he would do everything that he could to protect and provide for his mother and younger siblings - especially his only sister, who shared the magic of her father and older brother. He believed that in the town of Lothering, the last place their father had brought them, they could make a safe, quiet life. But a darkness has come to Thedas, and fate has far grander plans in store. </p>
<p>Is it Fate, or is it Chance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The End of the Beginning

### Prologue: The End of the Beginning

The battlefield was a grim sight to behold. 

It had been three days since the final battle; three days since the archdemon had dropped from the sky, descending to engage in what would ultimately be the last fight of its life, ending the two hundred years of terror that Dumat and his fiendish darkspawn had wreaked across the lands of Thedas. 

Three days since the blaze of white light that had erupted into the sky; three days since the last of the darkspawn had either been disposed of or chased back into the cursed Deep Roads from which they had risen. Three days since the cheers of triumph had ripped across the lands and the people had realized that it was, at last, over. 

The archdemon was slain. The Blight was over. 

But it was a bittersweet victory. 

The captain led his men across the Silent Fields – a fitting name, for there was not a sound to be heard as they walked in solemn procession. They were there for one purpose alone; to retrieve the bodies of their fallen brethren, the brave warriors who had given their very lives in order to ensure the continuation of life upon Thedas, and give them the proper send-off that they so greatly deserved.

His eyes moved over the tattered remains of the silver-and-blue battle standard, the gryphon heraldry upon it blackened with mud and blood. Yes, they had won, but at the highest cost – the loss of the Grey Wardens, every one of them sacrificing themselves in order to bring down the Archdemon Dumat. “Sir?” One of the other soldiers approached him from the side, his quiet voice startling in the quiet. “The men are ready to begin the retrieval.” 

The captain hesitated – now that he was here it seemed almost wrong to remove the bodies, as if this was their gravesite, and to disturb them would be desecration. But no – each and every one of these men and women deserved to be returned to Weisshaupt, and it was they, their loyal followers and supporters, who would ensure that they did. 

He turned back to the fifty-odd group of soldiers behind him and nodded in approval. Then he pointed to a select few. “You five, come with me,” he said with authority.

Turning, he led the smaller group further into the battlefield, towards the center of the Silent Fields – towards the dark, looming husk that had, only a few days earlier, been the greatest menace Thedas had ever seen.

The archdemon. The Old God. Dumat. 

The great beast lay there now in a drying pool of his own blood, his deadened eyes filmed over, wings collapsed around him and legs akimbo. It had not been an easy death. It had taken every Grey Warden the Anderfels had to bring down the massive creature, and the captain felt a momentary, malicious sense of satisfaction that the Archdemon appeared to have suffered so much in death. How fitting, given what the Blight had brought upon the world. 

“Gods, look at it,” one of the men next to him breathed as the six of them stood before the carcass. “It’s huge.” 

“What were you expecting?” the Elven archer to the left of the captain asked. “We weren’t facing an Archhousecat.” 

“Enough,” the captain interjected before any bickering could rise up between his men. “You know why we are here. We must ascertain that the Archdemon is well and truly dead – that there is no longer any threat, even from his body. And then we must take what we came here for.” 

“He’s still strong with the taint,” the only mage among them murmured. “It will be dangerous to get close to him.” 

“Then best that it’s us,” the captain said gravely, a sentiment to which his companions promptly nodded.

The mage reached into his robes and withdrew several vials, which he promptly passed to companions. “Gather up as much as you can,” the captain ordered. “The greater our supply, the better. The rest of Thedas may be relieved that the Blight has ended, but we must remember – there were seven gods of Tevinter lore, and Dumat was only the first.” 

The others nodded, and without further words they spread out, encircling the archdemon’s corpse as they set to the task of harvesting what blood they could from him. 

It was a tedious task, much of the blood having dried and coagulated by now, but with the size of the corpse they made progress. The captain moved closer to the dragon’s midsection, taking care not to touch it. Tainted as it was, it was too much of a risk. 

He almost missed it – the soft humming that seemed to radiate from within the decaying flesh of the creature, the sound growing louder the closer the captain moved to it. Every hair on his body rose to attention, a chill sweeping through him from the crown of his head to the balls of his feet. 

He called for the mage and the man came running, summoned by the shaking note of the captain’s voice. He stilled the moment he reached him, staring at the same spot, his own expression a mirror image of shock. “There’s something there,” the mage replied. He raised his arm, pointing directly in front of them. “Here.” 

As the others hurried to them to see what was going on, the captain rose to his feet and drew his sword. With a sudden force of strength he drove the blade into the thick hide of the dragon, his muscles bulging as he sliced through it. More blood, so coagulated it was black, spilled out of the open wound, the stench causing a few of them to take several steps back. 

The captain dropped his sword and shoved his arm into the opening. 

His men watched in shock as his entire body seized up, then jerked as if a strong lightning spell had just been cast into his body. The archer reached forward, but the mage grabbed his arm in an iron grip, shaking his head at him. Touching the captain now would be suicidal. 

Suddenly the captain staggered back, yanking his arm out and stumbling over his feet. The mage and the archer caught him, steadying him, staring at him in shock. Except for a slightly stunned look upon his face, the man seemed none the worse for what had just happened. 

Not that any of them could say with certainty what had happened. 

“Sir?” 

The captain didn’t respond, staring down at the object he now held in his hand. It pulsed slightly, white light swirling around, warm to the touch and yet it did not burn. The captain was white-lipped, his eyes wide. 

The mage squeezed his arm to get his attention. His head snapped up, startled. 

“What is that?” the mage asked quietly, his eyes going to the object. 

The captain swallowed hard, his mouth dry. And then, in halting words, he told them.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

They left for Weisshaupt that night, their find safely encased in magic and metal, to begin the first of the new Joinings at the captain’s insistence, replenishing the ranks of the Grey Wardens. Of the six who found the object, only three survived their Joinings.

It was many weeks later that the captain, now First Warden of Weisshaupt, drew aside the mage and the elf and told them what he had seen when he had touched the object – swearing the knowledge that he imparted to them to secrecy.

They agreed to seal away the object in a vault, its location known only to the three. 

Thirty years later, the First Warden disappeared into the Deep Roads with his companions, following his Calling and carrying the greatest secret of the Grey Wardens to his death. He penned only a single document, passed on to his successor with a single warning: that it not be read until the moment another Archdemon fell to a Grey Warden’s blade. 

The vault was forgotten. 

Two hundred and seven years passed. 

In the year 1:5 Divine, the Second Blight began.

>   
>  A warning to the prophet  
>  The liar, the honest  
>  This is war  
>  \- 30 Seconds to Mars, ‘This is War’  
> 


	2. Welcome to Ostagar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the journey begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Thank you for checking out the first story I'm posting here on AO3 - please be kind to any editing mistakes as I get used to this website. Until now I've posted exclusively on Fanfiction.net, so AO3's publishing system takes a little getting used to. I won't bore with a long involved Author's Note here, but I would like to take the time to explain that I have been posting Arcanum for approximately a year over on Fanfiction.net, which some people might be familiar. This version will be identical to the version I have posted over there. I hope to update a chapter every one to two days here, until I have this version caught up with the original. After that, I'll be updating them both at the same time. I'll add a little note once all pre-written chapters have been uploaded. 
> 
> There, technical stuff out of the way. I'd like to thank my beta-reader, Teakwood, who has stuck with me tirelessly since this epic began. I also want to thank lisakodysam, who introduced me to AO3 and is just a generally awesome person (and a great writer!). And last, I want to thank everyone in advance who takes the time to read my work. ^.^ I accept all feedback, both the good and the constructive. 
> 
> And now, please enjoy Arcanum.

### Chapter One: Welcome to Ostagar

There was one thing that Yllia knew with certainty upon arriving at Ostagar.

Living in the Circle Tower for almost sixteen years was no kind of preparation for living on a battlefield.

The first thing that hit her was the scent. Ostagar was by no means dry, and this meant that the scent of rain and mildew permeated _everything_ , from the tents to the armor to even – she was sure of it – the weaponry. Gone were the slightly perfumed scents of the Tower's bathing areas, the musty smells of ages-old books in the library. Funny how she'd never really _thought_ about such things until they simply weren't _there_ anymore.

Then there were the people – the space was by no means _small_ , but she felt a touch of claustrophobia nonetheless. The various armies gathered had their own separate areas, tents crowded together and soldiers milling about between them. The Circle Tower had a good number of mages, but there was enough space for all of them to get by without feeling closed in amongst the others. And the noise – the _noise_. She was used to the quiet peace of magic studies, with the occasional explosion from a misplaced Fireball. Not the raucous jeering and gesturing echoing from all corners of the encampment.

"Not the same thing as the Tower, is it?"

At the sound of Duncan's voice, Yllia felt her cheeks flush as she realized she'd been standing in the entrance to the base camp just…staring. _Yes, Yllia,_ she admonished herself, _act like a complete and utter fool. Anyone can look at you and tell that you're green._ She fought back her blush, willing – no, _pleading_ – for the heat to diminish. Duncan sounded…well, if not amused, then the next best thing.

So she did the only thing she could do when faced with unbearable embarrassment – she plastered a smile onto her face and affected the cheeriest tone she could. "Not in the slightest," she agreed. "It's very….open." She hoped that was a diplomatic enough response.

"And far more crowded, noisy, and odorous, I imagine," Duncan finished, and this time the amusement _was_ obvious. There went that blush again. _Maker, save me,_ Yllia inwardly groaned. Eighteen summers old and stepping foot away from Lake Calanhad for the first time in her life, and she might as well have "Freshly Harrowed Mage, Good for Laughs!" tattooed across her forehead.

She cringed. Her thoughts were getting snarky. That wasn't a good thing.

"Well…yes," she admitted, feeling a little sheepish and more than a touch chastised. "I'm sorry. I know that it can't be helped, situation as it is, I just… I've never lived beyond the Circle. I wasn't…"

"Prepared for this." Duncan's brief amusement slipped away and the Grey Warden's serious expression fell back into place. "I know. And if there had been more time to prepare you… but there isn't, and this is how it is."

_Yes,_ she thought in agreement. _This_ is _how it is_. This would be her life now, once she was made a full Grey Warden. If this _was_ a true Blight, as Duncan had stated determinedly more than once in their travels, then battles against the darkspawn would only become more frequent. She swallowed hard at that thought. True, she could wield magic with no little skill – she wasn't modest enough to not accept the praise of her mentors as truth – but she'd never done so in a combat situation.

Had she made the right choice, convincing Duncan to conscript her this way? Would it have been better for him to select a stronger mage, one with more experience, more ability?

She was drawn out of her uncertain thoughts as they came through a large archway by the sound of armor-clad footsteps approaching, and she looked up to see a group of men moving towards them. Most of them looked like regular soldiers, but one of them in specific drew her attention.

And given the brilliance of his golden armor, she suspected that was exactly what he intended to do.

"Ho there, Duncan!" The blonde, gold-clad man strode forward to clasp Duncan's hand in greeting, his overly familiar greeting surprising Yllia – particularly because Duncan looked rather taken aback himself. Just who was this man?

"King Cailan?" Duncan said, quickly composing himself and responding as Yllia nearly choked on her own breath. "I didn't expect-"

"A royal welcome?" The king gave Duncan a rather charming smile, his voice tinged with amusement. "I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!"

Yllia stared at the two men during their exchange. _This_ was Cailan Theirin, son of Maric and king of all Ferelden? She'd never even seen a painting of him before, and she didn't pay too much attention to politics; since she'd believed her entire life would be lived out within the Circle of Magi's tower, there hadn't seemed to be much point. Politics was something the First Enchanters and the other seniors dealt with, not the apprentices.

She knew King Cailan had only held the throne for five years, having assumed it only after King Maric's death, but…well, she wasn't sure what she'd been expecting in terms of the King, but she was pretty sure the overly eager man before wasn't it. As she listened to his exchange with Duncan, it became rather obvious to her that the two men did not share the same opinion in terms of the upcoming battle – Duncan regarded it as a very grave and serious matter, whereas Cailan acted as though it were a mere skirmish and would be over soon enough.

"The other Wardens told me you've found a promising recruit," she suddenly heard Cailan say, and with a start realized that he'd turned her attention towards her. "I take it this is she?"

Duncan nodded. "Allow me to introduce you, Your Majesty," he said.

Cailan waved off his formality. "There's no need to be so formal, Duncan," he said. "We'll be shedding blood together, after all." He turned that welcoming smile onto Yllia then, and she found herself getting a touch flustered. It wasn't every day that you had a _king_ speak to you, after all. "Ho there, friend. Might I know your name?"

Yllia clasped her hands together in front of her and willed her hands to not start fidgeting. "Yllia, Your Majesty," she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. "My name is Yllia Surana."

"Pleased to meet you," Cailan replied. He gave a slight nod in Duncan's direction. "The Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I, for one, am glad to help them. I understand you hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you have some spells to help us in the coming battle?"

Oh, wonderful. Nothing like being put on the spot. "I'll do my best, your Majesty," she replied, putting on the most confident smile that she could muster and hoping against hope that he wouldn't ask her something like how long she'd been out of her apprenticehood.

The answer, however, seemed to satisfy Cailan, evidenced by the cheerful, "Excellent!" that he gave in response. "We have too few mages here, another is always welcome. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks."

Yllia bowed her head once. "Thank you, your Majesty," she murmured.

Cailan nodded once, and then spoke to both her and Duncan. "I'm sorry to cut this short," he said, and he truly did sound regretful, "but I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to _bore_ me with his strategies."

Yllia was relieved to have the king's attention off of her, directing her attention to glancing around the ruins while Cailan and Duncan spoke, until something else the king said caught her attention. "I'm not even sure this is a true Blight," he was saying as he turned away from them, and there was no little disappointment to his words. "There are plenty of darkspawn on the field but, alas, we've seen no sign of an archdemon."

"Disappointed, your Majesty?" Duncan asked quietly.

"I'd hoped for a war like in the tales!" Cailan's words took on a wistful tone. "A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But...I suppose this will have to do." He shook his head slightly and turned back to them. "I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens."

And with that the king turned and left with his guards as quickly as he had appeared, leaving both Duncan and Yllia standing in the entrance to Ostagar, alone.

When he had disappeared within Ostagar once more and she was absolutely certain he was out of earshot, she turned a questioning look to the man beside her. "Is he…often like that?" she asked, hoping that she wasn't being _too_ tactless.

Duncan didn't appear to be put off by her question. "Yes," he said simply. "The King means well, and he _is_ the Wardens' greatest supporter – Maker knows we can use more of those, but…" He paused, letting the word hang in the air. Yllia understood. King Cailan meant well, but it was obvious that he was _not_ taking the situation as seriously as Duncan felt that he should be.

"The battle…it's not going to go as well as he's hoping, is it?" Yllia asked softly, an uneasy feeling gathering in the pit of her stomach.

"For all of our sakes I want to hope it does," Duncan said grimly, "but the truth is, I do not believe so. This _is_ a true Blight, I and every other Grey Warden know it, but if we cannot convince the nobility of it than it is as we are simply throwing rocks at an avalanche in hopes of ending it. In the days of old the word of a Warden on the presence of an archdemon would have been enough – now they want visual _proof_. And by the time we gain such, it may be too late."

That uneasiness was swiftly accompanied by a chill. "You were saying that some of the armies aren't here yet – what will happen if the darkspawn reach us before they do?"

"Then we will have no choice but to fight the darkspawn with the men that we have," Duncan replied. "Which is why we must proceed with your Joining as swiftly as possible. I apologize – I'm afraid there will be very little time for you to rest before the ritual."

"Ritual?" Yllia looked at him, startled. It was the first time he'd mentioned anything about a ritual. Being a mage, the word 'ritual' brought all sorts of images to mind, and not all of them were exactly welcome. "What… _kind_ of ritual?"

"Nothing that I can get into at this time," Duncan said with such firmness in his tone that she didn't dare press the matter. "You'll find out when the time comes." He paused, as though thinking to himself, and then motioned across the stonework bridge ahead of them. "The Grey Warden camp is across this bridge. Why don't you take some time to orient yourself with the camp, perhaps seek out some of the other mages? There's another Grey Warden here at camp by the name of Alistair; he'll be able to answer some of your questions. When you're ready, have him bring you to me. I have some things to deal with in the meantime."

And with that Duncan set off across the bridge, leaving Yllia to watch after him, and wonder just what sort of life she had exchanged the Circle Tower for.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Despite Duncan's veiled instructions on finding other mages to speak with, it was the stone pillars of the Ostagar ruins that drew Yllia's attention.

She'd read about the Tevinter occupation from books in the Circle's libraries, but the history behind it had always been in an abstract form. It was written on the pages of books, and therefore she knew it had happened, but her understanding of it had ever gone beyond the written word and inked illustrations.

Standing now before the very real ruins of the structures she had seen in the books brought her history lessons to an entirely new level.

She reached out and lightly ran her fingers along the cold, moss-covered stone. Despite the years the stonework still felt as smooth as it must have the day that the pillar had been erected. She tilted her head up and tried to imagine what it must have looked like in its heyday – what other parts had been attached to it, what sort of structure had it been before war and time had reduced it to all it stood as now? All of those questions ran through her mind, and she was touched with the sadness of knowing that she would probably never have those answers.

A keening whimper from her left made her pause and blink, and she turned to find herself unexpectedly face-to-face with a large wooden wall that stood higher than her. Of course, being an elf, that wasn't a _difficult_ feat – a human of average height had a good half a foot on her most of the time. Being shorter than humans was aggravating enough; being on the short side for an _elf_ was an _entirely_ different kettle of fish.

The whimper came again, and Yllia's curiosity got the better of her again as she followed the length of the wall. It wasn't that large, and when she turned the corner she realized it wasn't a wall at all – it was a fence, and the fence to an animal pen on top of that. She looked through the open spaces between the slats at the front of the pen, and could make out the dark form of an animal lying on its side. The whimpers were coming from it.

"Looks like the poor thing's got himself another sympathizer," a rough voice said from her right, and Yllia nearly jumped out of her skin in surprise. "I wouldn't get too close if I were you, though."

She stepped away from the fence and turned to the bearded, light-armored man who had appeared out of nowhere. "I'm sorry," she said hastily. "I heard him, and I couldn't tell where the sound was coming from." She looked back into the pen, and could make out the animal much better now. "He's a Mabari, isn't he?" she asked, recognizing the description of the Ferelden war hound. She'd never seen one herself. No Circle mage had a Mabari of their own.

The man nodded. "I'm the Kennel Master here at Ostagar," he introduced himself. He motioned to the dog. "This guy lost his master in one of the last skirmishes and didn't come out of it too well himself – got poisoned with darkspawn blood, he did."

Yllia looked at the dog in alarm. "Is he going to be all right?" she asked. She couldn't help but kneel down to get a closer look at the dog. He was still lying on his side, but his eyes seemed to follow her when she moved. She knew the Mabari were intelligent, almost as much so as a human, but now she could _see_ that intelligence in his eyes. There was a spark there that one didn't normally see in animals, but it was dampened by the hound's obvious illness.

"I'm doing what I can for him," the Kennel Master replied, and from his sigh he appeared frustrated that he couldn't do more. "But he's anxious and nervous, and I can't get him to calm down long enough for me to get a muzzle on him. I can't have him lashing out and biting, not with the taint in him. He won't let anyone near him."

Yllia rose to her feet, still looking at the dog, and then glanced at the Kennel Master. "Why don't I try?" she suggested. It pained her, seeing such a beautiful animal so clearly sick, its own fear getting in the way of treatment. It was a feeling she herself was immensely familiar with.

She swallowed for a moment, shoving her thoughts to the back of her mind and banishing the memories they tried to bring. _Not now._

The Kennel Master looked at her skeptically. Mabari tended to be one-person animals, and they didn't often imprint on anyone else after losing their master – which made them all the more difficult to handle in situations like this. Yllia could see his hesitancy as he looked her over, taking in her slight frame and petite stature. If the dog went for her, it would have the obvious advantage in size and strength.

Ah, the joys of being an elf. Humans took one look at you and automatically assumed that you were weaker and frailer than they were. She'd love to see a human last a three day trek through dense forest with hardly any stopping time and the possibility of sleeping in trees.

The Kennel Master must have seen the look of impatience in her eyes, because finally he nodded and handed her the leather muzzle. He unlatched the gate into the pen and she stepped inside, keeping her eyes on the large canine. She wasn't stupid. She knew it was risky, but she didn't think it was any riskier for her than it was for a human.

The dog didn't move as she came towards him, but when she knelt down next to him he suddenly shifted and surged to his feet, standing up so that his head was now even with hers. She could see how his legs shook from the strain, the poison in his blood having an effect on his ability to stand.

"Easy, boy," Yllia murmured, reaching her free hand out towards his head. He held himself as still as he could, the trembling of his muscles his only movement. She held her breath as her fingers hovered just over his hand – and then she was touching him, slipping her hand behind his head to hold him steady as she brought up the muzzle and slipped in securely over his face. She released the breath she'd been holding and sat back on her knees, stroking his ears lightly for a moment before standing up. He watched her as she walked back to the gate, and then settled back down again, looking relieved to be able to rest once more.

The Kennel Master looked at her in amazement, slowly shaking his head. "Now that's something else," he said. "None of the other handlers have been able to even kneel down before setting him off. You have my thanks, Lady. I'll be able to treat him now, I will."

"Is he going to be all right?" Yllia asked, casting a worried look back in the Mabari's direction.

The Kennel Master pursed his lips. "Once I treat him, he'll have a fighting chance," he said, "but unfortunately the one medicine that will _really_ help I'm completely out of. It's made from a flower that grows in the Wilds, you see, and I'm not permitted to go out there to harvest it. Not now, with the darkspawn so close and the battle upcoming."

Yllia thought quickly. Duncan had mentioned in passing that Grey Wardens weren't restricted to the same rules at the camp as the rest of the soldiers, though he hadn't specified what the difference was. But if there was even a chance she found herself in the Wilds, then maybe she could help. "What does this flower look like?" she asked curiously. "Maybe I can help."

"It's a nice thought, Lady," the Kennel Master said, "but I doubt you'd have any better of a chance getting into the Wilds than I would – if the soldiers aren't permitted then the mages _certainly_ aren't."

He knew she was a – oh. Right. She supposed the apprentice robes and the staff strapped to her back were a pretty obvious tip off. "But I'm not one of the army mages," Yllia replied. "I'm a Grey Warden recruit."

His reaction was almost comedic with the way his eyes grew so large they threatened to drop right out of his head. She wasn't sure if she ought to feel amused or indignant – was it really _that_ difficult to imagine her as a Warden? Her expression must have shown her thoughts again, because he managed to compose himself and even look a little contrite. "Well, that changes the situation a bit," he said. "Certainly if you come across the flower, I'd appreciate the help." He gave her a quick but detailed description of the plant, then asked if she needed him to write to down – an offer she immediately waved off, assuring him that she had studied herbalism enough to remember the description.

When he asked if there was anything he could help her with in return she almost waved it off – until it occurred to her just how much time she'd spent staring at walls and helping with the Mabari. A good portion of the day had gone by, the sun already beginning its downward descent.

"Actually," Yllia said, "I don't suppose you might know where I can find someone named Alistair?"

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Alistair.

It was unlikely there would ever come a day when Yllia would not vividly recall her first meeting with her fellow Warden, though at the time she had no way of knowing just how important that moment would end up being in her life. At the time they'd simply been two normal people - well, as normal as one could possibly be, given the circumstances of their lives.

Yllia's first impression of Alistair was of a twenty-something young man who hadn't quite grown into himself yet, covering inexperience and hesitation with attempts at wit and charm – sometimes a little _too_ much wit and charm, but there was something disarming about his smile as he sarcastically argued with the mage he was speaking to while she approached that made one of her own tug at her lips.

"You know," Alistair said as the mage stalked off in irritation, turning to the young elf standing off to the side, "one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

Yllia glanced after the retreating figure. "He seemed pretty irritated with you," she said.

"Oh, you know how it is – everyone always wants to shoot the messenger." He shook his head, and then paused, giving her a closer look. "We…haven't met before, have we? Are you a mage?"

"Maybe it's not as obvious as I thought," she said, earning her a blink and slight head tilt. She shook her head. "Yes, I'm a mage – but I'm not one of the army mages."

"I was going to say that you didn't look…" He paused, and then realization dawned on him even as he spoke. "Wait. I _do_ know you. You're the new recruit that Duncan brought in, aren't you, from the Circle of Magi? Yeah, he told me you were looking around."

"Then you must be Alistair," Yllia said with relief, glad that she'd actually tracked down the right person and wasn't just talking to some random stranger. Well, yes, he was a stranger, but he wasn't _precisely_ random. "I'm Yllia. Pleased to meet you."

And there went that good-ol'-boy grin again as he nodded. "Same," he said. "Actually, I thought I'd run into you a little sooner. There can't be that many things of interest around here. Soldiers, tents, weapons…and more soldiers, tents, and weapons."

"And architecture," Yllia said without thinking. She blushed a touch at his startled look. "I mean, well…the ruins." She reached up and idly played with the end of one of the many tied-off locks that encircled her head, a nervous tick that she'd picked up during hours-long training sessions that left her tense and wired and with no way of expending all of that pent-up energy. "I've never seen ruins like these, so I was just…"

"Taking a closer look?" She nodded, and Alistair grinned. "Well, they're certainly bound to be more entertaining than most everything else here, so I guess I can't blame you."

Some of the tension left her, and she returned his smile. She'd been worried that all of the Wardens were going to be more like Duncan – not that she didn't _like_ Duncan, but he was older than her by quite a bit and _very_ serious about his task. She admired that, but found it rather intimidating at the same time. She couldn't help but wonder just _how_ far Duncan would be willing to go in order to achieve his goals – namely, the final defeat of the darkspawn and the end of the Blight.

But Alistair didn't appear to be like that. He had an easygoing manner that contrasted sharply with the attitudes she'd witnessed around the camp amongst the soldiers, and to her additional relief, he didn't seem to be put off by the fact that she was an elf. She'd caught a couple of sideways glances as she'd walked the camp, and although no one had _said_ anything to her, it had felt as if they were watching her to make sure that she didn't cause any trouble. It made her feel as if she was being placed under a magnifying glass, and she didn't like it.

There was also something rather _familiar_ about him, but she couldn't _quite_ put her finger on what it was.

"So," Alistair continued on, unaware of the mental scrutiny he was experiencing from his new companion, "Duncan told me that I was supposed to answer any questions that you have, which makes me think he didn't have much of a chance to tell you anything himself. So – do you? Have questions, I mean?" The words 'overeager puppy' came to mind, and Yllia had to fight to restrain her laughter so that she wouldn't accidentally insult him.

Besides, his eagerness meant that she might _actually_ get some answers out of him. "I probably have more questions than there are words to express them," she said with a smile. "What was all of that about just now?"

"You mean with the mage?" Alistair sighed and shook his head. "The Circle is here at the king's request and the Chantry _doesn't_ like that. They just _love_ letting mages know how unwelcome they are."

Yllia felt that familiar twinge of anxiety again, but Alistair continued on without picking up on her discomfort. "It puts me in a bit of an awkward position – I was once a Templar."

Forget the twinge – she now felt like she had a full block of ice lodged firmly in her stomach, and it must have showed on her face because Alistair suddenly stopped talking. "Oh, bloody… listen, I didn't mean anything by all that, about mages being unwelcome and all. That's not how _I_ feel."

"But you just said you were a Templar," Yllia said uneasily.

"Well, yes – _was_ being the operative word there." Alistair reached up and pushed a hand through his hair. "Actually, I was never fully inducted into the Order. I was supposed to take my vows when Duncan recruited me six months ago. And I don't regret it for a minute. Being a Grey Warden suits me far better than being a Templar ever would have, and I'm not going to condemn someone just because they were born with the ability to cast magic.

Yllia studied him, then relaxed when she saw the sincerity in his eyes. She smiled – still a touch uncertain, but it was still a smile and the sight of it set Alistair at ease as well. "It's all right," she said. "I'll overlook your almost-Templarness as long as you answer the rest of my questions." She made sure to keep her tone light, and when her response was another grin, she knew she'd succeeded.

"Go ahead," he replied with a nod. "Ask me anything."

"What's the Joining ritual?"

"Oo…anything but _that_." Alistair shook his head. "We're not supposed to give details about the Joining until it's time for it to take place – Grey Warden tradition, and six months isn't enough for me to go against it. You'll find out soon enough; I'm sure Duncan doesn't plan on waiting too long for yours."

Yllia hide her disappointment, although she honestly wasn't surprised that Alistair wouldn't talk about it, given how expertly Duncan had dodged the question earlier. It'd been worth a try, though. "Okay, different question. I've gone around the entire camp, but I haven't seen any other Grey Wardens. Where are they?"

"Down in the valley with the rest of the armies," Alistair replied, motioning in the general direction. "King Cailan's given us the honor of being part of his vanguard – and I think he's actually eager to ride into battle with us." He pressed his lips together for a moment, looking as if he intended to say something more, but held his tongue on whatever it was. "Speaking of the other Grey Wardens, though, I imagine Duncan is probably waiting for you now with the other recruits. Are you ready to go?"

No, not in the least. But Yllia had agreed to this, and she wasn't about to step back from the path that she herself had chosen. If she didn't stay with the Grey Wardens, then it was back to the Circle of Magi and the Tower. She'd walk through Hell itself before allowing herself to be sequestered away in that tower again.

"I'm ready," she said, meeting Alistair's eyes steadily. "Let's go."

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Duncan turned to them when they reached the Grey Warden camp, and he nodded. "There you are," he said, a touch of admonishment in his voice as he looked at Alistair. "I was just about to send someone to look for you."

"Sorry," Alistair said hastily. "Yllia and I got to talking – she had some questions." He didn't mention the conversation with the mage that Yllia had walked in on, which made her think that Duncan wasn't aware the Chantry was using his Grey Wardens as messenger boys and that Alistair didn't want Duncan to know about it. On the way to the camp, he'd mentioned that Duncan was doing his best to make sure the Grey Wardens cooperated with everyone and didn't step on anyone's toes, but that the other sides weren't quite as amicable. Simply having King Maric return full rights to the Grey Wardens and permit them back inside Ferelden, it seemed, was not enough to garner trust.

"I trust you answered them, then?" Duncan asked, this time looking at Yllia for confirmation.

"All the ones that he was allowed to," Yllia replied, looking at Alistair with a smile, which he promptly returned.

"Well and good, then." Duncan gave a curt nod and motioned to them to join the other two men who he'd been standing with when they arrived. Yllia did so, glancing at them curiously. They both appeared to be older than she was, and human. One of them was leaning casually against a tree, thumbs hooked into the belt around his waist and a devil-may-care grin on his face. The other stood stoically with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression serious enough that it rivaled Duncan's own. She wasn't sure what to make of them, but she suspected she'd get along better with the one against the tree. The other just seemed too…stiff.

"Since you're just joining us now, Yllia, a quick introduction," Duncan said. He nodded to the other two recruits. "This is Daveth and Jory – they, like you, are Grey Warden recruits, and will be undergoing the Joining with you."

Yllia looked at them and offered them a smile, which Daveth promptly returned and Jory simply nodded to. Yep. She definitely got a better vibe from Daveth.

"So what is it that we have to do?" Jory asked, turning his full attention to Duncan. "You said you'd tell us once she got here."

Duncan nodded once, and then addressed all of them – including Alistair. "There are two tasks that I'm giving to you now, both of which will involve you entering the Korcari Wilds," he said. He held up one finger. "The first task is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood – and it must be fresh."

"Darkspawn blood?" Daveth looked startled.

Duncan nodded. "One for each of you, gathered by your own hands. Once you have obtained your vials, you will bring the blood back here, and we will commence the Joining."

Obtain a vial of fresh blood from a darkspawn – no, Duncan wasn't asking for anything _too_ difficult, now, was he? But he _had_ said that magic was especially effective against the darkspawn, and Yllia took some comfort in that fact. She wasn't a fighter and her only weapon was a staff, but if there was one thing she had confidence in, it was her spells – however limited her repertoire was.

"You said there were two tasks?" Jory asked.

"Yes – the second is retrieval. Hidden within the Korcari Wilds are the ruins of an ancient archive belonging to the Grey Wardens. This archive served as home to several scrolls of great importance – they are ancient treaties belonging to the Wardens of old, promises of support pledged to the Wardens during the Blight." Duncan looked around at them, one at a time. "These treaties must be retrieved and preserved. Find the archive and find the treaties, and bring them back to me. Alistair, you'll be going with them."

Alistair looked slightly surprised, but only briefly – he nodded to acknowledge Duncan's order, and Yllia felt a rush of relief. At least she wouldn't be going out into the Wilds with two complete strangers. She might have only known Alistair for an hour at most, but that was still an hour more than either of the other men.

Duncan held Alistair's gaze for a lengthy moment, and then looked back to the three recruits. "Go, then," he said, his voice quiet and serious. "And may the Maker be with you."


	3. Into the Wilds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yllia sets out on her first task as an almost-Warden, and runs head-long into complication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks again to Teakwood for his constant, faithful beta-ing.

### Chapter Two: Into the Wilds

The Korcari Wilds were not _quite_ what Yllia had been expecting.

The way the soldiers had been talking, she'd expected them to be overrun by darkspawn the moment they set foot outside of Ostagar – but at first, all she saw were trees. And bushes. The occasional flower (though not the flower she needed for the Kennel Master, and yes, she _was_ keeping an eye out for it). And despite the mugginess of the humid temperature, the Wilds were actually quite…nice, scenic-wise.

But there was something off about them nonetheless, and it took Yllia a moment to place it.

"It's too quiet, isn't it?" Alistair murmured from next to her, causing her to jump in surprise as he echoed her thoughts. Gone was his earlier caustic humor, his wit and wry smiles. His expression had gone sober, his eyes scanning the landscape as the four of them trekked through the foliage, ever alert for signs of danger. Being the only true Grey Warden present, he was the only one who'd be able to give them any amount of warning should they suddenly come upon a darkspawn raid.

Yllia nodded. "No birds, no animals," she said softly. "I didn't hear them around Ostagar, either, but at least you had the noise of the armies. But here… nothing."

"Most of the inhabitants of the Wilds who were able have likely already moved north, away from the horde," Alistair said. "Following their instincts, which are rightly telling them to get the hell out of here." He gave a humorless half-smile. "We, of course, being of superior intelligence, instead choose to walk _right_ towards the threat."

"Are they near?" Yllia asked, giving him a searching look. "The darkspawn?"

"Oh, they're near enough, and we'll likely come across them sooner rather than later," Alistair replied. "Don't worry about _that_. It's not gathering the blood that I'm anxious about, it's the second part of Duncan's task for us."

"Finding this Grey Warden archive?" Yllia tucked a few stray locks of hair back underneath her cowl to keep the humidity from plastering them to her skin and becoming irritable. "I thought Duncan gave you a map?"

"A map drawn by Grey Wardens who haven't been in this area for two hundred years," Alistair said with just a touch of exasperation. "Who knows what's been in and out of the archive ruins since then? Or if they're even still _there._ "

"We'll find out when we get there," Yllia said, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Something seemed to be agitating him, and she didn't think it had anything to do with the lost archive. She brought her hand up to her eyes to shield them from the sun. "I think Daveth and Jory found something."

The other two recruits had moved on ahead while Yllia and Alistair had been talking, and now Daveth was waving the two of them over while Jory knelt to examine something on the ground. Alistair and Yllia both hurried forward – and Yllia almost wished she hadn't, recoiling from the death scent that permeated the area as soon as they reached the other two men. She yanked up the edge of her robes to cover her mouth. "What…"

"If it wasn't for the smell, we might have gone right by them," Daveth said, shaking his head. "These bushes hide them pretty well." He pulled back some of the brush, showing them the desiccated corpses of men and oxen that had been left to rot. "Think darkspawn did this?"

"Either darkspawn or tainted wildlife," Alistair said, as Jory stepped back from the corpse he'd been examining. "Poor bastards… they got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Looks like they were just travelers, not soldiers," Jory said. "I think they've been here for several days now."

Yllia looked down at the bodies, her heart aching for the lives cut far too short. "Can we do anything for them?" she asked. "A pyre or something?"

"Too risky," Alistair said, and she could hear the regret heavy in his tone. "A pyre would just attract anything in the area to us – and we don't dare take them back to the camp. If they were killed by darkspawn, they could be carrying the Blight sickness."

Daveth backed up several steps, his eyes widening. He hadn't thought to worry about _that._

Jory looked at the caravan remains for another moment, then turned to them. "If there isn't anything we can do for them, we should probably keep moving," he said.

Alistair started to nod – and then Yllia saw his entire body go rigid, his expression change swiftly from one of pity to one of determination as he reached behind him and drew his sword from its back sheath. "Darkspawn!" he shouted, the single word sending a rush of adrenaline surging through the elven mage at his side.

She turned as he did to see a group of eight of them, breaking out of the foliage and crashing down upon them. If not for Alistair's warning they would have been taken completely by surprise, but Daveth and Jory's reflexes had their weapons in hand, metal flashing as they joined Alistair into the fray.

Yllia hung back, knowing full well that she wasn't equipped to find herself in the middle of eight darkspawn, drawing on her ice and lightning spells to give her companions an edge, and before long their attackers were reduced to nothing more than charred and broken corpses, lying in pools of their own blood.

Which, fortunately, was exactly what they'd come for.

As the men wiped their blades off on the grass and resheathed them, Yllia joined them from her perch. Alistair looked up and gave her a crooked smile. "Nice spells," he said. "They really didn't like those."

Yllia felt her cheeks flush a little at the compliment – she wasn't used to having anyone outside of the enchanters at the Circle praising her magic, and given that Alistair himself had said he'd almost been a templar, his appreciation factored in even more. "I can see why Duncan wanted to have more mages in the Wardens," she said with a nod. The darkspawn definitely had less resistance to her spells than most did – a byproduct of the taint that had corrupted them into what they were now? Impossible to know, but Yllia was thankful for it.

"Okay, so…how do we collect this stuff without, you know, getting it on us?" Daveth asked, looking at the pooling blood warily.

"I can do it," Yllia replied. She held out her hands for the empty vials that Duncan had given both Daveth and Jory, pulled out hers, and knelt down to carefully collect it. Years of training in dealing with volatile potion ingredients really _did_ come in handy for some things. She filled each vial with precision and secured the stopper to keep it from spilling, then handed the other two back to her companions. Her own she slipped into the most secure of her inner robe pockets, the one at her hip where her belt would keep it flush against her skin. Dangerous if it broke, but the less it could move around, the less likely it would be _to_ break. Her pack wasn't an option – it wasn't that large, and it was already chock full of herbs and potions and other little tidbits that she'd felt would be _vitally important_ when she'd left the Tower. Rather amazing how all of that piled up after awhile, and she wanted to leave enough room in case she found the flower for the Kennel Master.

"Is that enough?" Yllia asked Alistair when she was done, giving him an inquisitive look. He nodded, having been watching her like a hawk as she'd filled the vials, and she rose to her feet and quickly checked her robes to make sure they weren't wrecked. It occurred to her that the Circle robes were not well-suited to traipsing around in marshland, but there was little that she could do about it now, but she wondered how effective she'd be able to cast if she swapped them out later for a set of light leather like Daveth's. She'd never worn actual armor before, but all she needed was to be able to cast in it, not move about and swing a weapon. It was certainly something to think about.

"All right, that just leaves the archives now," Alistair said, reaching into his pack and drawing out the map that Duncan had passed to him. He looked a little disgusted. "I can't stand these blasted things..." He stared at it for a few minutes, and then looked around. "Okay…I _think_ we're here, by this little knobby…thing. And if that's us then we want to go…that way. The map shows we'll find the archives by a…" He paused, stared at the map, and then frowned. "A chicken?"

"What?" Daveth stared at him, and Jory raised an eyebrow.

"Let me see that." Yllia reached out and snagged the map out of Alistair's hands, looking at it. She immediately understood why Alistair was having trouble with the map; the Grey Wardens who had drawn it must have been in an all-fired hurry, because half of it was smudged and the other half was rather indecipherable. But she thought she could see that part that Alistair was referring to. But… "That's not a chicken, Alistair. That's a goat."

"A goat?" Alistair asked incredulously. "That's _not_ a goat. Goats don't have wings." He pointed at the misshapen blob on the map. "See? Those are wings."

"What? No, they're horns."

"Andraste's tits, give me that!" Daveth all but snatched the map from them in disgust. "Don't tell me the two of you have never learned how to read a map?" He looked down at the parchment – and for a moment his expression was almost comical. But rather than attempt to determine just what it was the map was pointing at, he just started off in what appeared to be a random direction and said, "This way." Jory set off after him in silence.

Alistair and Yllia looked at each other for a moment, shrugged, and then followed. She _still_ thought it looked like a goat.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

If the four travelers thought that they were being stealthy as they slipped through the Wilds, they were _sorely_ mistaken. The one leading the way seemed to have _some_ idea of how to move without being detected, and the elf walked with the natural grace of her people that lent itself to soft footfalls, but the other two galumphed their way through the bushes in a way that might as well have called out to the Blighted, "Hey, here we are! Come and eat us!"

The crow ruffled her feathers, tilting her head to the side so as to watch their approach more readily from atop her branch. Ah, so they were after the ancient archives. Well, their relief at having found the place was going to be short lived once they opened up the chests and poked around a bit.

Which, the crow supposed, was precisely what she was there for.

She listened to the dismayed reactions of the four, spread her wings, and swept down to land behind one of the large, moss-covered pillars – one of those ones big enough to hide not only a crow from sight, but more importantly a human being. Foolish people. Did they _really_ think something as important as that which they sought would just be left to _rot_ in a treasure chest for untold years? The chests weren't enchanted in any way – all it would take was the right rogue to come along and pick the lock and poof, valuable documents vanished! The only reason they'd held out for as long as they _had_ was because no one but the Chasind dared to wander into the depths of the Wilds.

And no one but she and her mother dared to _live_ in the Wilds.

She called on the magic within her, felt it slide through her veins as if it were blood itself. She envisioned it starting at her chest and then spreading out, down along her spine to her legs, to her wings, up along her neck and into her head itself. She formed the image in her mind with practiced ease, picturing the wings becoming slender arms, the clawed talons becoming toes attached to lithe legs, her spine straightening and shifting until she was handle to stand fully upright without the feathers of her tail for balance.

The mage, sometimes called witch, unfolded her long legs and steadied herself, momentarily nude before her clothing manifested and settled around her body. Transfiguring her clothing along with her form so that both blended seamlessly into her shift was child's play for someone who had been assuming forms other than her natural state for as many years as she – and although it might have been _amusing_ to see the reactions of the travelers if she'd stepped out in nothing but her bare skin, her mother had made it clear enough to her that this is a business matter, _not_ a game.

What a pity.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Yllia stared into the empty chest, and then looked up at Alistair and shook her head. "Nothing," she said. "They're completely empty. If the treaties that Duncan wants _were_ here, they're long gone."

"Who would take such things?" Jory asked, frowning and looking rather displeased.

"Someone who thought they could make a couple silvers off of them, probably," Daveth replied. "So we came all the way out here for nothing?"

Alistair looked caught somewhere between frustration and distress. "Let's look around again," he said. "Maybe we missed some-"

"Well, well. What have we here?"

The sly, husky, and _decidedly_ feminine voice caused all four of them to turn, and Yllia stared as an unfamiliar dark-haired woman made her way down the ramp of the ruins, her eyes on them as she walked… no, _stalked_ , like a cat stalked its prey. She moved with predatory purpose, and Yllia responded accordingly by slowly rising to her feet. Cautiously.

Because she could feel something coming from this woman that the men could not, save perhaps for Alistair. _Magic_.

This woman was a mage – but her magic felt like nothing Yllia had ever experienced before.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder?" the woman continued, moving closer to them with purpose. "A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" Yllia followed her movements until the other mage at last came to stand before them, her kohl-rimmed amber eyes fixing on the elven girl and her companions.

Then, abruptly, she crossed her arms over her chest – her rather scantily-clad chest, and Yllia spared a brief moment to wonder if _she'd_ ever have the courage to wear such an outfit – and spoke sharply, "What say you, hmm? Scavenger, or intruder?"

"Who are you?" Yllia asked, her tone guarded. She wasn't quite sure what to make of this woman. She was nothing like the Circle mages. There was a wildness about her unlike anything that Yllia had ever experienced. It reminded her a bit of the…of the Fade.

_Tread carefully, Yllia._

"Who am I?" The woman replied archly, looking at him for a moment before moving again, circling around them. "You come into my home, and question me as if I am the one who does not belong here? Interesting." Yllia turned as she moved, keeping her carefully within sight. Her instincts were screaming at her to not take her eyes off of the mage.

"I have been watching you for some time now," the woman continued, avoiding Alistair's question and yet answering an unspoken one of Yllia's. "Where do they go, I wondered? Why are they here? And now you disturb ashes none of have touched for so long." She stopped walking again and looked thoughtful. Inquisitive. "Why is that?"

Yllia looked at her companions, and Alistair immediately shook his head. "Don't answer her," he cautioned in a low voice. "She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby."

The woman laughed, a mocking tone entering her voice. "You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

Alistair narrowed his eyes, and once again Yllia caught a glimpse of that other side of him, a more serious side that he hid behind his jokes and humor. "Yes," he said, clearly not impressed by their new acquaintance, and it came through in his tone despite his attempt at a light response. "Swooping _is_ bad."

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is," Daveth suddenly cut in, sounding simultaneously nervous and fearful. "She'll turn us into toads."

Witch of the Wilds? The term seemed familiar, but Yllia couldn't place where she'd heard it before. Probably one of the many books in the Tower again, although it wasn't too often that one found reading material on mages who _weren't_ part of the Circles. It wasn't like the Chantry wanted to advertise the fact that there were apostates wandering about the world, free and clear – even though everyone knew they existed.

Another laugh, and this time it was one of pure, unadulterated amusement. "Witch of the _Wilds_?" The barest hints of a smirk played at the corners of her mouth. "Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?"

It appeared to be a rhetorical question, which was good, because Yllia could practically see Alistair trying to come up with some sort of response and she was sure whatever he said wasn't going to help the situation in the slightest. She quickly tried to think of something to defuse the growing tension, but the woman solved the problem for them. "You there, sister mage," she said, startling Yllia. "Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized."

Of course – just like Yllia could sense her magic, she likely could sense Yllia's. Probably far easier, in fact, because there was no doubt in Yllia's mind that she was facing a skilled spellcaster, even if she couldn't identify her personal school of study.

Alistair was shaking his head at her, but she ignored him – she had the feeling that any lies would be seen right through, and she wasn't interested in dealing in mistrust right from the start. "My name is Yllia Surana," she replied.

The smile that was given to her appeared both pleased and satisfied. "And you may call me Morrigan."

Their eyes met, amber-gold to sky-blue, and something flared between the two of them. With a start Yllia realized that this meeting was not by chance or coincidence, but by carefully orchestrated timing. Morrigan _had_ been watching them, but not to find out what they were doing there. She knew already who they were and why they'd come, and had simply used It was cover to make contact.

But why? What...game was she playing?

One thing Yllia knew for certain – she had no intention of being someone's pawn.

"We came here in search of ancient documents that were left behind in these ruins," she said, grabbing the reins of the conversation before Morrigan could snatch them back. "Do you know anything about them?"

"Ancient documents?" Morrigan repeated, feigning just a bit too much innocence.

" _You_ stole them, didn't you?" Alistair interjected, and Yllia was sorely tempted to step on his foot, although he probably wouldn't feel it through the metal. "You're some kind of sneaky…witch-thief!"

That foot-stomping was looking _very_ tempting.

Morrigan was nonplussed. "How very eloquent," she said dryly. "How does one steal from dead men, I wonder?"

Alistair's agitation only grew. "Those documents are Grey Warden property!" he said in a clipped tone, "and I suggest you return them."

"I will not," Morrigan said with a touch of indignation, "for it was not I who removed them."

"But you know who did," Yllia cut in before the conversation could spiral out of the control and descend into pointless bickering. "Don't you?"

Morrigan looked at her for a moment, and then sighed, placing her hand upon her hip. "'Twas my mother, in fact," she replied.

Now they were getting somewhere. "Can we meet her?" Yllia asked, giving Morrigan her friendliest smile – the one that always convinced the Senior Enchanters to let her study on her own instead of with the other apprentices, giving her ample time to practice the magic _she_ wanted and not what _they_ wanted.

Morrigan looked thoughtful, touching her hand to her chin, and then nodded. "There is a sensible request," she agreed. "I like you."

Yllia wasn't sure how she felt about that.

Neither was Alistair. "I'd be careful," he said dryly. "First it's, 'I like you', then it's 'zap' – frog time."

Yllia held up her hand, wiggling her fingers a little. "I'm not _too_ concerned," she said, a bit of electricity sparking between her fingertips, reminding her companions that Morrigan wasn't the only mage present.

"Follow me then, if it pleases you," Morrigan said with a touch of amusement, before turning to head off into the Wilds.

Not wanting to let her out of her sight and get left behind, Yllia hurried after her, boots sinking into the mud. With any luck, they'd meet Morrigan's mother, persuade her to turn over the scrolls, and be back at Ostagar before sundown and in time for something warm to eat.

If _only_ their luck could be so good.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

The trek through the Wilds went far smoother with Morrigan as a guide – she knew her ways through the foliage and marsh better than the four Wardens (well, one Warden and three soon-to-bes) could ever hope to, and had no qualms about straying off the established path and leading them on roundabout paths that, as it turned out, ultimately allowed them to avoid corrupted wildlife and small darkspawn groups. They only got into a couple of skirmishes along the way – skirmishes that, Yllia noticed, Morrigan had no qualms about sitting out on.

After the first two detours, Alistair matched pace with Yllia, muttering to her that he wouldn't be surprised if Morrigan was purposefully getting them lost instead of taking them to her mother. Though Yllia acknowledged that it was a chance, she also reminded Alistair that they had little choice – if Morrigan's mother really did have the documents they needed, then following her was the only chance they had of getting them back. He grumbled and clearly didn't like it, but he didn't argue again after that. The distrust he held for the wild witch, however, was almost tangible.

Another delay came from Yllia herself, who noticed a certain plant off to the right as they were walking. To her delight she realized it was exactly what she needed for the Kennel Master, and now the situation was reversed – it was Morrigan griping instead of Alistair, who had no issues with Yllia stopping if only because it appeared to irritate Morrigan. Daveth and Jory both wisely stayed out of the way.

Yllia decided she was going to be _very_ happy once they were on their way and there was as much distance as possible between Alistair and Morrigan.

At last the trees and bushes began to thin, and then Morrigan was leading them into the first clearing they'd seen in a long time. In the center of the clearing, surrounded by a fence that appeared to have been pieced together from fallen trees with little in the way of actual craftsmanship going into the effort, stood a modest two-story cottage that looked _just_ barely big enough for two people. Outside of the cottage stood a cooking pit, and a few things that Yllia couldn't identify – Circle upbringing left her a bit wanting in the practical knowledge of life department. If it was important, she could probably ask Alistair or Daveth later. Not Jory – she doubted he'd want to spend the time explaining.

As they approached, the door to the hut opened, and a tall woman strode out. At first glance she wasn't much to look at – slender, but her hair was graying and there were lines about her face. And yet the moment Yllia was close enough to see her eyes she knew that she would _never_ be able to consider this woman to be _old_. Her body may have been aged, but the eyes that looked back at her bespoke of more power, wisdom, and strength than Yllia could ever dare _dream_ to possess.

Morrigan greeted the woman with disdainful interest. "Well, here you are, Mother," she said to the woman. "Just as you expected."

"You expect us to believe you were _expecting_ us?" Alistair scoffed, then fell silent at a warning look from Yllia. She hoped her expression conveyed enough of 'do _not_ antagonize the very powerful mage' for him to take it down a couple of notches.

"You are required to do nothing, least of all believe," Morrigan's mother said with all the interest of someone addressing a haystack. "That I knew you were coming and that I know _why_ you have come is an undeniable fact, but I do not expect to convince you of the truth of it. Nor, for that matter, do I intend to try."

Alistair tensed but said nothing; a quick glance at Jory and Daveth showed that both of them wisely appeared to have decided that silence was best. That, or they were just too intimidated by the two apostates. Because, of course, that's what they had to be – certainly they were in no way affiliated with a Circle.

There was a light flutter in Yllia's stomach. She'd always wanted to meet an apostate – a mage who had learned magic outside of the ironhold grip of the Chantry, the Templars, and the Circle of Magi. The rules regarding which magic you could learn, how far you could take your studies, what you could _do_ with it – although she understood the _theory_ behind the rules, she couldn't help but resent the restrictions. It was…it was as if a musician were being told they could not make music, a scribe that they could not write. Or, perhaps a better example: a warrior that they could not _fight_. Magic was what a mage _was_ , and to restrict it… it was like telling them not to breathe.

But as much as she'd wanted to meet other non-Circle mages, at the same time there was something about this woman that made her… _uneasy_.

"We're Grey Wardens," Yllia said, looking at the woman, "and we've come looking for a set of scrolls that were left in the old Warden archives. Morrigan told us that you might have them."

The older mage arched one eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in what might have been amusement. "Not Grey Wardens, save for this one." She nodded once in Alistair's direction. "Not _yet_ , at any rate. Still and all, there's truth enough in your words. You've come seeking the treaties, then?"

"You've read them?" Yllia asked. It felt like a pointless question. Of course she'd read them – otherwise she wouldn't have known what they were. They'd taken care not to refer to them as anything other than 'scrolls' and 'documents' once they were Morrigan's presence. But the worlds had just stumbled out before she could catch them.

Her response was a husky chuckle. "I don't _have_ to read them to know what they are," she said cryptically. "I suppose you want them back, then? Claiming them in the name of your Order, after I've taken care of them for so long?" Her eyes met Yllia's, and the young elf's breath caught. The power swirling behind those eyes was so intense it was near-tangible, and she had to struggle to remember to breathe. Jory and Daveth didn't react, but Alistair's stance shifted ever-so-slightly, a look of discomfort passing over his face.

It took Yllia a moment to remember that she'd been asked a question, and she willed herself to nod. "We do want them, yes," she said. "If there's something that you need in compensation for them…"

Another laugh, and this time the humor in it was unmistakable. "Compensation? You offer Flemeth compensation? You _are_ a strange one, aren't you?" Her mouth remained curled into a smile – a smile that hid untold secrets, truths, and lies.

And Yllia felt herself grow cold, because she _knew_ that name – and yet it seemed impossible that this woman, this aged apostate living in the Wilds, could possibly be the Flemeth of legends. Yes, the mythical Flemeth was supposed to have walked the Wilds, but that had been _centuries_ ago. Surely… surely…

And yet, was the Dalish name for her not _Asha'bellanar_? The Woman of Many Years?

"Are you… _the_ Flemeth?" she managed to asked, still stunned by the name alone.

"I am myself, and no one else," came Flemeth's smooth answer, though it truly answered nothing. "Very well. You seek your treaties, and you shall have them. You'll need them for certain in the coming times. More trials and tribulations than one person could dare to shoulder alone." She turned from them, disappearing inside the cottage, and reemerging a moment with a series of scrolls bundled together and covered in a deerskin wrap.

She brought the bundle to Yllia and held it out to her expectantly, clearly intending for Yllia to take it. After a moment's hesitation she did so – and as she did, her hand brushed against Flemeth's.

Everything around her swirled, her eyes widening as her gaze flew up to meet the golden eyes of the witch before her once more. That gaze held her, captivating her in a way that threatened to push her to the very edge of her sanity. And though Flemeth's lips did not move, her voice could be clearly heard.

" _You have a long and winding road ahead of you, Yllia Surana,_ " Flemeth's voice purred within her mind. " _And you will be faced with many choices along the way. Some will be easy. Some will be hard. And some will seem easy, only to be the most difficult in the end. Remember these words well, child._ "

And then Flemeth stepped back, and whatever connection there had been was gone, leaving Yllia dazed and rather overwhelmed. "Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize."

"What do you mean by that?" Alistair demanded, alarm creeping into his voice.

"Either the threat is more or they realize less," Flemeth replied, and then waved her hand through the air. "Or perhaps the threat is nothing! Or perhaps they realize nothing!" She laughed, the frustration returning to Alistair's expression. "Oh, do not mind me," she continued. "You have what you came for."

"Time for you to go, then," Morrigan said in a tone that indicated the entirety of the exchange had bored her – making Yllia wonder if she had noticed what had passed between herself and her mother. But Morrigan's expression was impassive, impossible to read.

"Don't be ridiculous, girl," Flemeth chastised her daughter. "These are _your_ guests."

Morrigan looked at her for a moment, and then sighed. "Oh, very well," she relented. "I will show you out of the Wilds." And with an expression that stated very clearly she would rather they not, she added, "Follow me."

Yllia held the deerskin-wrapped scrolls close to her chest, feeling decidedly chilled despite the muggy temperate of the Wilds. Whether they had to follow Morrigan or find their own way out, she didn't care – just so long as she never had to set foot in the Wilds or go near Flemeth's cottage again.


	4. To Survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yllia finds that some choices are easier to make than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Teakwood for his betaing, and to lisakodysam for her much appreciated support.

Things moved fast when they returned to camp, despite the late hour that they finally trekked in from the Wilds. By the time Yllia had delivered the flowers she'd gathered to the Kennel Master and made her way to the Grey Warden campsite, she was tired, hungry, and in dire need of a change of clothes. She was fairly certain she could find some form of respite for the first two – given the general state of everyone's clothing and armor, she wasn't so sure about the last.

At the absolute least, she just wanted to get off of her feet for a few minutes.

Unfortunately, Duncan had other ideas – none of which involved rest, a warm meal, or fresh garments. In exchange it looked like she was going to get a nice dose of whatever the hell Duncan needed the darkspawn blood for. Joy.

Jowan always had teased her that she was cranky when she didn't get enough sleep.

And so she found herself standing in what Duncan had referred to as the Old Temple – she could almost see him speaking in capital letters – and she supposed that if she squinted her eyes and tilted her head she could see that yes, the area in which they now stood _might_ have once been a temple of a sort. Any iconic clues as to the purpose it had once served, however, had long since been stripped from the site.

The three recruits stood together, opposite Alistair as they waited for Duncan to arrive, and Yllia turned her attention away from their location and onto the men to her left. To her surprise it was Daveth who seemed rather calm about the entire situation and Jory who fidgeted, a bundle of nerves as he glanced around apprehensively. She would have thought it'd be the opposite, but given what she now knew about the other two men, perhaps not. Daveth, really, had nothing to lose – Jory had everything.

She couldn't blame Duncan or Alistair, really, for not telling them that the Joining was potentially fatal _before_ sending them out to get the darkspawn blood. You never knew who would turn tail and run at the thought of their lives being in danger. And her respect for either Warden hadn't diminished – they _could_ have just flat out lied when she'd pressed the issue.

And she wasn't going to lie to herself by denying that for one fleeting moment she'd thought to turn and run. But she's checked herself, holding back and resisting that first impulse. Where would she go? Not back to the Circle – no force of nature in all the world would be strong enough for her to willingly return to the glorified prison that she had been restricted to for near sixteen years. And if she tried to strike out on her own, she'd get labeled an apostate and run the risk of being caught and again, returned to the Tower – this time with the possibility of being made Tranquil.

Just the thought of it sent a shudder through her that she quickly suppressed. That part of her life, that fear, was behind her. Not only had she been Harrowed, passing the trial with flying colors, but she was also no longer a mage of the Circle. In a few moments her true fate would be decided – one way or another.

It was at that moment that Duncan arrived, moving with purpose towards the large silver chalice that was sitting on the stone alter. Yllia held her breath, her heartbeat quickening. The temple grounds grew quiet and still.

"At last we come to the Joining," Duncan said, his voice grave, his expression solemn. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the very edge of annihilation." He turned to face them, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

Yllia drew in a sharp breath. Oh. So… _that_ was what the chalice was for. Not to mention the blood itself.

"We're…going to drink the blood of those…creatures?" Jory's nervousness had increased tenfold with that single statement alone.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us," Duncan said, looking at Jory, "as we did before you. _This_ is the source of our power – and our victory."

"Those who survive the Joining," Alistair said, taking over the explanation, "become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon."

Somehow Alistair's words didn't put Yllia much at ease, and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands, trying to ignore how damp they had suddenly become. She didn't say anything – she couldn't trust herself to speak.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining," Duncan said quietly, "but these words have been said since the first." He looked at Alistair. "Alistair – if you would?"

Alistair took a deep breath, his eyes slightly averted towards the ground, as if he could not bring himself to look at the three of them. "Join us, brothers and sisters," he said, the words echoing in the silence that had overtaken their small assembly. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

Words that, no doubt, had been intoned on timeless occasions without change – for what needed to be altered about them? They spoke of the finality; they spoke of the sacrifice. They spoke of the bond that held all Grey Wardens together, regardless of whether one survived the Joining or not.

How did it feel to be a part of something like that?

Duncan was lifting the chalice now, moving towards Daveth. The former cutpurse stepped forward, holding his hands out for the cup without hesitation. His earlier words rang in Yllia's ears – she'd believed him without hesitation when he'd declared that he'd do whatever he had to do if it meant ending the Blight. And she could see that same determination and resolve in his eyes now as he took the chalice into his hands and lifted it to his lips.

Yllia watched in slow-motion as Daveth doubled over, reaching up to grasp at his neck as choked gasps tore from this throat. His body staggered, convulsed, eyes blank and face contorted in pain. She brought her hands up to her mouth as he jerked forward, falling to his knees before at last collapsing, his body going limp at Duncan's feet.

There was very real regret on Duncan's face as he looked down at the still form that had, just moments ago, been Daveth. "I am sorry, Daveth," he said softly.

Then he turned away from the corpse, chalice in hand, and turned to face Jory.

In numb horror Yllia could do nothing but be still as Jory backed up against the wall, stammering out protests, his eyes wild with disbelief and fear as he threw allegations of deceit and murder at the Warden-Commander. Her mind went blank as he drew his massive sword from its sheath, raising it against Duncan, and she watched as Duncan's own blade slid into Jory's belly. It happened fast – too fast for her to process, and now Jory lay still, dead in a pool of his own blood. She didn't hear anything Duncan said, didn't see Alistair's reaction – she saw nothing but her two former companions, dead and cold upon the stone floor.

She was all that remained.

Now Duncan brought the chalice to her. She could see the dark red mixture within it, and her stomach clenched.

She'd thought her only other alternative to the Joining was to return to the Circle, and now she could see just how very wrong she'd been. The Grey Wardens didn't conceal the details of the Joining out of concern that it was would be refused at the last moment; they did so because a person would have to be outright suicidal to agree to such terms from the start.

She met Duncan's eyes and saw the unasked question – would she drink?

And she saw the heaviness within his gaze that answered her own – if she did not drink, would she die?

Death by blade? Or death by taint?

_She recalled a little girl, huddled in the back of a tent, the ravaged, still forms of her parents laid out before her. A torn throat; a gouged heart._

_A man in silver armor, his hand outstretched towards her. Speaking words she did not understand; the language of humans. Speaking in tones she did know; the promise of safety._

_Survival._

_She would not die._

"I will live," Yllia whispered, and brought the chalice to her lips.

* * *

_The dragon's roar reverberated through the air, the great beast perched atop a collapsing tower, wings extended and mouth open wide to reveal row upon row of sharp, blackened teeth. Below, armies of darkspawn swarmed, wielding axes and swords, magic and death._

_The dragon screamed again, and swung its massive head around as though it were looking for something; something that it could not quite see, something that was there and yet not._

_Her heart constricted. She knew what it was looking for._

_Her._

"You have a long and winding road ahead of you, Yllia Surana." _The witch's words echoed around her, coming from everywhere at once and yet nowhere at all._ "You will be faced with many choices."

_A light in the darkness then, bright white illuminating against the poisonous green of the sky. Six glowing lights above the dragon, spinning slowly, shimmering…calling._

"Some will seem easy…only to be the most difficult in the end. _"_

_The dragon looked straight at her, red eyes burning. The lights vanished, and the world was plunged into darkness._

* * *

Alistair watched the sleeping mage silently, sitting cross-legged in his armor next to her bedroll. Well, _his_ bedroll – she'd been at camp for all of a day and hadn't had a chance to procure anything in the way of belongings, so he'd offered up his own bedding after she'd passed out from the ritual. It had been a somewhat uncomfortable night, but he wasn't unaccustomed to sleeping upright.

Not that he'd slept all that much. He and Duncan had traded off watch shifts; someone had to be awake to monitor Yllia's wellbeing as she recovered from the effects of the Joining. It was rare, but Alistair knew that there had been cases where even Wardens who had survived the initial tainting succumbed to the aftereffects. The moments directly after the ritual were the most dangerous, but no Warden was out of danger until they opened their eyes for the first time. It wasn't their bodies that were in danger of killing them during that time – it was their minds. Mages, from what Duncan had told him, were especially vulnerable – and it was why the Wardens limited the number of mages they drew into their ranks.

Which was ironic, given that magic was their greatest weapon against the darkspawn themselves.

What apprehensive views Alistair had concerning the use of magic and the mages who wielded it had, for the most part, diminished since leaving the Chantry and the Templers for the Wardens. He couldn't say he was one hundred percent _comfortable_ with it, but he wasn't anywhere close to the diehard fanatics who seemed to believe that every mage hid a maleficar beneath their skins. Blood magic made him ill just thinking about it, but the elemental spells that Yllia had used in the Wilds? Damn useful, in his opinion.

She started to shift on the bedroll, catching his attention and snapping him out of his thoughts. Her eyelids shifted restlessly, her head turning from side to side. She parted her lips as if to speak, yet no sound emerged. A light sweat broke out on her pale skin, and her hands clutched at the bedding beneath her as though she were trying to hold onto it.

Alistair started to reach out, to seize her by the shoulder and wake her, but Duncan's warning stopped him. _Don't wake her before she does – she must return to us on her own. And whatever you do, do not_ startle _her when she wakes. Remember, she_ is _a mage._

Right. No one wanted charbroiled Alistair, least of all him. He withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels, anxious.

She fidgeted for several more minutes before her eyes suddenly snapped open, her back arching as she gasped for air. Before he could try to get her attention she rolled onto her side, coughing and dry heaving, her small body giving several sharp jerks to punctuate each sound. Since she'd been unconscious for several hours her body didn't have anything to rid itself of, but that didn't keep Alistair from wincing as her features twisted in pain.

Finally it stopped and she lay there, chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath, her eyes wide and a little glassy. Deciding it was safe enough Alistair reached out and gently took her by the shoulder, rolling her onto her back so that she could breathe more easily.

"Easy," Alistair said when he saw her eyes finally focus on him – finally _see_ him, rather than whatever vestiges of nightmare still lingered in her mind. "Don't move too much. You've been unconscious for most of the night."

He watched the muscles of her slender throat work as she tried to swallow, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. He immediately reached for the flask of water he had waiting, putting it to her lips. "Sorry – it's warm," he apologized – and then stopped, because he could see the container frosting over a little as she used her ice magic on it. "Or it _was_ warm. Nice trick."

That tugged a slight smile to her lips as she passed the now cold water back to him, and he couldn't resist taking a swig of it himself – it was hot and muggy that day, just like all other days. "Thanks," she said, voice slightly hoarse but sounding no real worse for wear. "I passed out?"

Alistair nodded. "Don't worry, practically every Warden does it when they Join," he hurried to assure her. "Apparently at my Joining someone forgot to make sure there was nothing behind me, so when I collapsed I went down right in…well, there were a lot of cows in the area, let's just leave it at that." He reached up to rub the back of his neck, granting her a sheepish grin.

The corners of her lips tugged upward, and he felt a touch of satisfaction. Good. If she could smile, then it was a good sign. Given the way that her Joining had gone, he'd half expected her to start shouting at him the moment she woke up. He'd braced himself for it, even. There was more than one reason why he was wearing his armor.

She took a deep breath, and then braced herself with her hands, pushing herself into an upright position. When he reached to help her she shook her head, determined to manage it on her own. "I'm all right," she said. "The disorientation has passed. It wasn't much different from when I woke up from my Harrowing. Except for the dreams."

"Ah, yes – the dreams." Alistair nodded sagely. "We all get them. Green sky, hordes of darkspawn, angry dragon. Am I right?"

Yllia looked at him for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "Very angry dragon," she agreed. "What _was_ that?"

"That would be the archdemon," Alistair replied. "Legends say that the archdemons were once the Old Gods of Tevinter – if you believe the Chantry's version of things, then the first Tevinter magisters got tainted when they tried to enter the Golden City, and they became the first darkspawn. In turn, they descended underground and eventually located the first Old God, and tainted it. And so the first archdemon was born, and the first Blight began."

"Judging from your tone of voice, I'm guessing the Chantry's version isn't _quite_ true?" Yllia asked, definitely detecting a touch of scorn and sarcasm when he mentioned them.

"No one _really_ knows the truth behind the first Blight," Alistair replied, "not even the Grey Wardens. All we know for sure is that darkspawn are real, they come from underground, and the archdemon really is a giant dragon. Whether or not it's one of the Old Gods…who can say?" He shrugged. "Honestly, it doesn't matter one way or another to me. Old God or not, we have to defeat it if we're going to stop the Blight."

Yllia nodded slowly and reached up, touching the side of her head. "These dreams…this is how the Grey Wardens know for sure it's a Blight, isn't it? They see the archdemon in them."

"Yes." He let out a sigh. "But you can see why we have a hard time proving it to anyone else. _Only_ Grey Wardens get the dreams, so it's our word against the ones with the armies, and none of them want to believe that this is a true Blight. They all want to think the Fourth Blight was the end of it."

Yllia looked down at her hands. "But if I remember my history right, aren't there supposed to be seven Old Gods? If the archdemons are supposed to be them…"

Alistair held up his hand and ticked off four fingers. "There were less than one hundred years between each of the first four Blights," he said. "The First Blight lasted nearly two hundred years, but the others were consistently shorter and shorter. Then, suddenly, four hundred years after the Fourth Blight and there's nothing. I can't really _blame_ them for thinking that it was over. It's just frustrating that they won't believe us _now_."

The young mage hesitated, and lightly nibbled on her bottom lip in thought. "What is it?" Alistair prompted. "You can ask whatever you want – and I'm not going to keep anything from you anymore."

She reached up and fingered one of her tied locks. "Daveth and Jory," she said softly.

Alistair grimaced, but nodded. "Thought you might end up asking about that. Daveth…it's always a risk. I…wasn't _completely_ truthful when I said that the Joining makes us immune to the taint." She looked at him in alarm. "We're tainted when we Join – but it takes a lot longer for it to take effect in most Grey Wardens. Some, though…it's immediate, the way that it was with Daveth.

"As for Jory, well…" Alistair hesitated, and then released a heavy sigh. "I know Duncan didn't _want_ to kill him. There was one person who wanted to back out at my Joining, but Duncan managed to talk him around. He survived. But Jory drew his weapon on Duncan – there wasn't much of a choice after that. I feel bad for him, but… we're Grey Wardens. We do _whatever_ we have to do to stop the Blight, and Duncan's been doing this for a _very_ long time."

"Whatever we have to do in order to survive," she murmured, and for a moment her eyes went distant. Alistair briefly flashed back to the Joining, and the words he _thought_ he'd heard her whisper right before she'd taken her sip.

Despite himself, he found that he was intrigued by this mere slip of an elf, this mage girl that Duncan had conscripted from the Tower of Magi. Truth be told, he'd been surprised to meet her; he'd expected someone, well…older. More experienced. Finding out she was _just_ out of apprenticeship, and yet Duncan had still recruited her, was….surprising. Surely she couldn't have been the _only_ Grey Warden candidate at the Tower.

But the more time he spent in his company, the more he began to see what Duncan perhaps had noticed. Elf she was, and mage, and girl, but there was something _else_ within her as well. A quality of strength that even most soldiers seemed to lack. The will to…to _survive_. To _live_.

He couldn't help but admire that.

"Where is Duncan?" Yllia asked, her voice interrupting Alistair's thoughts and snapping his attention back to her. She was looking at him expectantly.

"He got called to a strategy meeting," Alistair replied, "with King Cailan and Teryn Loghain. The darkspawn horde is moving ever closer, and they're preparing to meet them in battle. I think Duncan originally planned on taking you with him, but you hadn't woken up yet."

"Me?" Yllia looked a touch confused. "Why me? You're my senior."

Alistair felt a touch of heat rising up in his face, and he coughed, clearing his throat. "Yeah, well…I'm not very _good_ at strategy _or_ diplomacy," he said hastily. "I mean, you saw how I handled that mage. I'd probably say something snarky, and we're already low enough on the teryn's list as is. Besides, someone had to stay with you until you woke up."

"Oh, I see." And then, right in the middle of his relief that she hadn't pressed him on the subject, she met his eyes and smiled, and his heart skipped a beat.

_Maker, she's pretty…_

A low growl cut through the sudden silence, and Yllia's face immediately turned scarlet, mortification spreading across her features as she looked down at her stomach. "I..I suppose I haven't had much to eat lately," she said hastily. "I...I'm sorry…"

She looked so apologetic and embarrassed that Alistair couldn't keep from chuckling. "Don't worry about it," he swiftly reassured her. "It's to be expected. Aside from the dreams and the lovely ability to sense when a darkspawn gets close, Grey Wardens also get an extreme increase in appetite. If you _weren't_ hungry, _then_ I'd be worried."

He picked up the bowl and cloth-wrapped bundle that was sitting next to the flask he'd given her, and passed them to her. "It's just standard fare, I'm afraid," he apologized as she examined the half-warmed stew and the somewhat stale bread that he'd given her. "And it'll probably only take the edge off for now. We'll get something more substantial…"

His voice trailed off as she brought the bowl to her lips and tipped her head back, downing the contents in one hungry swallow. Hands moving faster than Alistair would have believed possibly, she used the bread to sop up the remnants, and devoured that almost as quickly – almost because she actually had to chew in between bites.

She held the bowl back out to him, and he took it automatically. "Just a little off the edge," Yllia said with another smile. "Thank you."

"Erm…right." Alistair stared down at the empty bowl. It wasn't a _small_ bowl by any means, and he'd had it filled to the rim. And he'd thought _he'd_ been hungry when he went through his Joining.

He quickly searched his brain for another topic of conversation. "Do you feel well enough to stand?" he asked. "Duncan will probably be back soon, and I'll imagine he'll want to brief us on the strategy."

"I think so." She pushed back the light covering that he'd draped over her, gave a slight scowl at her now very rumpled robes, and then moved to stand. He rose as well, in case she found she needed help.

The moment she got her legs under her she swayed, and his arms shot out, steadying her before she could fall flat on her face – or in his lap, given the trajectory of her pitch. She clutched at his arms, he held her around the waist, and the two of them looked at each other in simultaneous surprise.

Alistair found his voice first. "Are you all right?"

Yllia nodded slowly, relaxing her hold on him and regaining her balance as she did so. "Yes – thank you," she said again. She pulled back from him, averting her eyes slightly. "I seem to be thanking you a lot all of a sudden."

"That's what I'm here for," Alistair said, attempting to keep his tone light. He hoped the relaxing of her shoulders meant he'd succeeded. "So, since you can stand, shall we get out of this stuffy tent and get some fresh air?"

She seemed to hesitate for the briefest moment before nodding, motioning to him to lead and she'd follow. He noticed that she snatched up her staff from where it was leaning against the wall, strapping it to her back again in a fluid motion that spoke of being performed hundreds of times before.

He held the tent flap for her, and she squinted as she stepped out into the sun, bringing up her hand to shield her eyes until they could readjust. Then he watched her draw in a deep breath…and promptly wrinkled her nose. "Liar," she accused. "This isn't fresh air. This is armies of men who are in dire need of proper baths and animals that have probably never had a proper bath in their life, and the heat is only making the smell _worse_. Not to mention I think someone's burned meat. At least I _hope_ that's meat I smell. Whatever it is, though, it is _not_ fresh air."

"It's an army encampment," Alistair replied blandly. "What were you expecting?"

"I can dream, can't I?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth she frowned, her face shadowing. "Alistair? About these dreams we have…"

"Yes?" He looked at her curiously.

"In yours, do you ever see -" She cut herself off as Duncan entered the camp, his gaze settling on the two of them immediately.

Alistair tensed. He didn't like the look on Duncan's face. And he was pretty certain he wasn't going to like what he had to say, either.

* * *

Yllia didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed that Duncan's arrival had cut off her question, but she decided that it could wait anyway – it looked like Duncan had something important to talk to them about, and that was going to take priority over everything else.

The tension in Duncan's face eased slightly when he reached Alistair and Yllia, and he nodded to the younger of the two Wardens. "Good – you've awoken. No complications?"

Yllia shook her head. "I'm all right," she was quick to reassure. "I can stand on my own, my head doesn't hurt, and Alistair made sure I got something to eat, too." Then she held up her hand and called a ball of light into her palm for a few brief seconds. "And my magic looks like it's in working order, too."

"And you've explained everything to her, Alistair?" Duncan asked.

"Dreams, taint, appetite – pretty much," Alistair replied, checking off a mental list. "I'll get to the rest later. So, what'd the teryn have to say about the strategy?"

"The teryn and the king," Duncan put a bit of emphasis on the second part, "have decided to meet the advancing horde head on. King Cailan wants the Grey Wardens at his side along with half of the armies. The rest of the troops will hang back with Teryn Loghain and advance once the signal beacon atop the Tower of Ishal is lit." He nodded into the distance, and Yllia turned to look at the high tower that rose above the trees on the other side of the bridge. "With Teryn Loghain bringing up the back, we should be able to get the darkspawn in a pincer attack and overwhelm them."

Yllia turned to look back at him. "So we'll be going into battle?" she asked – and to her surprise, the knot of nervousness she would have expected to feel at the prospect didn't form. She felt…oddly calm.

To her surprise – and Alistair's, it seemed – Duncan shook his head. "No," he replied. "The two of _you_ are going to be ascending the Tower of Ishal and lighting the signal beacon for Teryn Loghain. I and the others will ride into battle with the king, but you are to remain at your post."

"What?" Alistair looked at Duncan in disbelief, voice pitching briefly. " _We're_ lighting the signal? But wouldn't it make more sense for us to be on the battlefield with you?"

"This is by the king's personal request, Alistair," Duncan said seriously. "If the beacon is not lit, Teryn Loghain's men won't know when to charge."

Yllia looked at Alistair, who looked like he was struggling to keep from saying something that would likely _not_ be well received. Even when he finally did speak, he couldn't keep the slight bite out of his words. "So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?"

Despite the sarcasm, Alistair's words held a certain amount of truth in them. "Alistair has a point," she said, looking back to Duncan. "Anyone could light the torch, can't they? It doesn't have to be us."

"That is not your choice," Duncan said firmly, and Yllia had a sudden flash to the last time one of the senior enchanters had scolded her for trying to remove a book from the library without permission. "If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there." He looked at the two of them sternly. "We must do _whatever_ it takes to destroy the darkspawn – exciting or not."

Alistair sighed, shaking his head. "I get it, I get it," he said. "But just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line. Darkspawn or no."

Yllia pressed her lips together to try and hide her smile – that sounded like the normal Alistair. If he could make witticisms like that, then he was probably okay with it to a certain degree.

But she couldn't resist egging him on. "I think I'd like to see that," she teased.

He looked at her, raising an eyebrow, and she could see him fighting to keep his expression stoic. "For you, maybe. But it has to be a pretty dress."

Duncan released a sigh of exasperation. "Maker help me, I have two of them now," he muttered under his breath. He shook his head. "All right, you two – gather your gear and get ready to go to the Tower. I have to meet up with the rest of the Wardens and the king." He paused for a moment, looking as if he were about to say something – but whatever it was, he held his tongue.

Instead he asked them if they had any questions, and Yllia actually did. "What do we do if the archdemon shows up?" she asked. "Do you want Alistair and me to leave the Tower?"

Duncan's expression turned grim. "No," he said firmly. "The two of you are to remain at the Tower regardless. If the archdemon shows…we on the battlefield will do what we have to do." A shout rang out from somewhere in the vicinity of the other armies, and Duncan looked towards it for a moment.

He turned back to them and placed his hands on their shoulders. "May the Maker watch over you both," he said quietly, holding their gazes for a few moments. Then he turned and walked away, leaving Alistair and Yllia behind.

Yllia bit her lip. "So this is it, then," she said finally. She smiled, but even she could tell that it was a shaky one. "I feel a little bit like a hatchling about to be thrown out of the nest to see if I can fly."

"I know the feeling," Alistair agreed. "But you have one advantage that a baby bird doesn't have."

She looked at him curiously. "What's that?"

He grinned. "Me, guarding your back."

His grin was infectious, even with the foreboding danger that was looming over them both. And his reassurance did help, quite a bit – if she had to have someone with her, she was rather glad it _was_ Alistair.

Maybe this Grey Warden thing wasn't going to be so bad after all.


	5. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Teakwood - there aren't too many beta-readers willing to Skype at 2 am!

Although the majority of the Ostagar ruins were in a state of decrepit disrepair that stemmed from several hundred years of abandonment and neglect, the mammoth Tower of Ishal still stood tall and proud, its vantage point over the Wilds serving as an ideal lookout for the armies of Ferelden. Even up close there was little to no sign of the age that the rest of the fortress had undergone, as if the Tower itself refused to accept the natural way of things, determined to withstand the test of time in defiance of the new ages.

When King Cailan's army had first arrived at Ostagar, his scouts had immediately secured possession of the Tower. It had been swept from bottom floor to top for any dangers, any breaches, and had been proclaimed safe upon finding none. Without pausing for rest, climbing to the top of the tower should have taken no more than fifteen minutes, tops - a task that could have easily been accomplished by the smallest page, let alone two Grey Wardens.

Had King Cailan not been so fixated on the glory of the old tales and the resilience and legend of the Grey Wardens, Yllia and Alistair would likely have never set foot within the Tower.

They had much to owe, as it turned out, to Cailan's fancy.

No sooner had warrior and mage arrived at the Tower's base than they had received the first shock of the night – despite the thorough scrutinizing that the army had performed, the Tower's defenses had been breached, and every floor had become heavily inundated with darkspawn. Most of the soldiers and scouts stationed within its walls were dead – only a few who had held posts on the outside still survived.

Despite the overwhelming odds against them, the two Grey Wardens merely paused to look at each other, silent questions receiving silent answers, and then pushed their way into the Tower.

The hordes fell upon them, wave after wave, exhausting Yllia's mana supply and straining Alistair's stamina as they cut through. Their medicinal supply was more than half depleted by the time they fought their way to the top floor, and by the time they reached it the few soldiers and mages who had accompanied them had been cut down, leaving only the two of them to face what waited for them.

Yllia's heart was pounding in her throat as Alistair threw himself against the final door, throwing it open and stumbling inside. "Get to the beacon!" he shouted over his shoulder to Yllia. They both knew that it had taken them longer than anticipated to reach their target – and Loghain would never move without the signal. They had to get it lit.

With his eyes on her, half-turned in shout, Yllia saw behind him what Alistair hadn't. "Alistair, _look out!_ " she shouted, raising her staff and releasing a blast of ice at the giant ogre that the shadows of the room had partially concealed just as it raised its axe to bring down upon Alistair, momentarily freezing it in place as Alistair threw himself to one side. He hit the ground rolling, a look of shock upon his face as he realized just how close he'd come to getting flattened.

Then his shock was gone, his face flushing with anger. There was a glint of silver as his sword reflected the firelight of the torches, and then he was on his feet and charging for the ogre just as it shook off the last of the ice shards that had covered its skin. It swung its axe again as Alistair ducked under its arm and twisted, blocking the strike with his shield and driving his sword into its arm simultaneously, drawing a bellow of rage from his monstrous opponent.

Yllia didn't think about how close Alistair was to the ogre, about how easy it would be for the creature to seize him with its free hand and crush him. With Alistair distracting it, she popped the cap on another lyrium potion and tipped the entire contents down her throat, feeling her mana momentarily refresh itself, power surging through her core. She muttered the incantation under her breath, sent a silent prayer to whoever was listening that she got the words right, and unleashed a wall of flame from the palms of her hands that filled the Tower with heat and smoke.

The flames shot over Alistair's head, her partner realizing that she was casting _something_ and dropping to his knees to avoid getting caught in the blast. As the ogre reeled from the sudden scalding, burning pain in its eyes, Alistair brought his shield in front of him and charged forward, sliding through the ogres legs as it stumbled blindly forward. How he then got _onto_ the ogre, Yllia couldn't tell, her view blocked by the massive bulk, but he was suddenly _there,_ on top of the creature and driving the blade of his sword through the base of its neck from behind.

The ogre bellowed and collapsed, the force of the fall throwing Alistair off balance and sending him tumbling to the ground feet away from the charred and bleeding corpse.

A quick precursory check revealed no more darkspawn in the room, and Yllia ran to Alistair's side. "Are you all right?" she asked breathlessly.

He ripped off his helmet, revealing a bleeding gash around his temple, and accepted the poultice she pressed into his hand. "Fine," he said tersely, not so much from irritation was from the way he was breathing. She followed the poultice with a stamina drought, and then a quick cure when she could. After the cure he gave her shoulder a light push. "The beacon. Go, I'll be fine."

Right. Beacon. She tried not to look at the blood on his face or the dead ogre, instead looking around and finally spying the hearth of tinder that lay untouched. Her stomach in knots, she pushed herself to her feet and hurried over. How much time had gone by since they'd entered the Tower? Since the king, Duncan, and the other Wardens had advanced on the battlefield?

Her mana spent, she snatched a torch up off the wall and hurled it into the hearth.

It blazed to life, the heat lashing back at her, but she didn't care. All she cared about was the sight of the flames curling upwards into the beacon, the steady glow lifting some of the tension that had settled onto her shoulders. They'd done it. The beacon was lit; Teryn Loghain's troops would advance.

She moved to the large open window next to the heart and braced her hands on the stone ledge, leaning out a little to try and get a look at the scene below.

Her throat tightened. Ostagar was burning – anything that could be on fire was, and that which couldn't had been crushed by the hurled boulders from the horde. She could hear the clashing of metal, the bellows and war cries from both sides, but she could not see the actual battle from her vantage point.

Movement in her peripheral caught her attention, and she turned her head slightly. Yes – there! She could just make out the massive form of Loghain's reserve, and they were starting to move. Her legs nearly gave out on her in relief.

And then something cold wrapped itself around her heart as it registered exactly _what_ she was seeing.

Loghain's army was moving _away from the battle_.

"No," she whispered, staring in horror. "What…" Adrenaline surged through her and she turned. "Alistair…!"

They got the warning at the same time, the cold, dark chill that filled their minds as it did all Grey Wardens, every nerve-ending within their bodies flaring up. There was barely time to register the sheer numbers before the door to the top floor crashed inward, the fresh wave of darkspawn flooding through the opening, swarming towards them like a sea of death and carnage.

Alistair had his sword raised and his shield out; she had her staff and was already chanting another spell. But it was too late. The darkspawn converged upon them, and everything went dark.

**

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

**

Her head _hurt_.

Not the 'hitting your head on the book you was reading because you fell asleep' type of hurt, or the 'drank a bit too much of the mead that got smuggled up from the Circle kitchen' hurt. This was the type of pain that came from casting a spell far beyond your own level or breaking every bone in your body. This was so much pain that even trying to open her _eyes_ hurt, and Yllia couldn't keep herself from gasping as she attempted to do just that.

A hand touched her forehead, and she felt the cool glass of a vial touch her lips as liquid was tipped down her throat. Almost instantly she could feel the potion work its way through her system, bringing her to a more heightened state of awareness.

"That will have to be enough," a familiar, husky voice said from above her. "I am not much of a healer, but this ought to take off some of the edge."

And it had – the knife-blade sharp pain had dulled to more of a club, and Yllia was finally able to open her eyes. She blinked owlishly up at the blurred face that hovered over hers, struggling to get her eyes back into focus – then her brain caught up with her and she realized she didn't need to see perfectly to know who the face belonged to. She recognized the voice.

"Morrigan?"

Maker, was that _her_ voice? It was so hoarse and scratched she sounded like an old man! She pressed her hand against her throat and swallowed, wincing sharply. Feeling a sense of déjà vu as Morrigan passed her a water flask – was this going to be how she was going to wake up from now on? – she downed half of the water before she had a chance to really taste it. She drank so fast that she started coughing, the rasping sound harsh to her ears.

Morrigan snatched the flask out of her hand. "I didn't give this to you so that you could _drown_ yourself with it!" she snapped irritably. "Twas a difficult enough task getting you to wake up – I'd rather not have to repeat it."

"Sorry," Yllia apologized thickly. She coughed again, clearing her lungs out, and sighed with relief when she felt her throat begin to feel a bit more normal. She blinked again, and her eyes finally focused. "Where am I?"

"My home," Morrigan replied simply, "where else would I take you? I wouldn't move too suddenly if I were you. You've been out for a few days."

A few _days?_ Ignoring Morrigan's warning, Yllia pushed herself up on the bed, wincing as her body protested from the sudden movement. She looked around the small room – a completely unfamiliar room, but she felt the touch of magic on everything there. Yes; this _was_ Flemeth and Morrigan's hut, and she didn't much care about that except that it meant one thing.

She was no longer in the Tower of Ishal.

She looked over at Morrigan, her eyes wide. "What happened?" she asked. "How did I get here?"

"My mother rescued you and your companion off the top of the Tower of Ishal," Morrigan replied in a matter-of-fact tone, as if old women retrieving Grey Wardens off of an eighty-foot tower were a common event. "The entire place was overrun with darkspawn – you were lucky that she got there in time."

Yllia's heart seized on one word – companion. "Alistair," she said, drawing in a sharp breath as she realized that in the confusion of waking up she'd completely forgotten that she had not been alone. "Is he..?"

"In about the same shape you were in, but he awoke some hours ago," Morrigan replied with a shrug of one slim shoulder. "He's in something of a state given that I would not allow him to disturb you while you slept. I do believe he does not trust me to see that you are properly tended to."

Somehow that didn't surprise Yllia, but she was too relieved to hear that Alistair was all right to comment. She pressed her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The last thing she remembered was the waves of darkspawn charging into the tower, and Alistair – still recovering from the battle with the ogre – going for his sword. And she hadn't been ready with her spells, her mind reeling from what she had just seen out the window…

She stilled, and slowly opened her eyes. "The battle," she whispered. "Do you know what happened?"

"The king's reinforcements quit the field," Morrigan said flatly, without preamble. "There were no survivors on the battlefield. The king, his men, and every Grey Warden – they were all cut down by the darkspawn." She paused, and then added, "You do not want me to tell you what became of their bodies."

No. No, Yllia really did _not_ want to know. The images of the merchants that they had found in the Wilds were still fresh in her mind, and that had been a _small_ ambush. She pressed her lips together and pressed her face into her hands, struggling to compose herself.

It was a strange, overwhelming feeling, the sense of her heart aching for another person. She had met the king only briefly, and although as a monarch he had not especially placed an impression on her, there was no doubt that he had a bright, sincere soul, and she ached for the loss of it.

But more than the king, she ached for Duncan, for the other Grey Wardens that she had never had the chance to meet – and now never would. Recalling Duncan's face the last time she'd seen it, she recognized the resignation that had been in his eyes; he had _known_ that there was a good chance he would not survive the battle. Yet he had gone forward, because that was what a Grey Warden did, wasn't it? However…

It was one thing to die in battle.

It was entirely different to die in battle because _you were betrayed._

Now Yllia knew with certainty what she had seen. The beacon _had_ been lit. The signal _had_ been given. And for whatever reason, whatever purpose, Teryn Loghain had turned his back on the king and sounded a retreat, leaving Cailan, Duncan, and everyone in that valley to die.

"Does Alistair know?" she asked quietly, working to keep her voice even.

"I have told him, yes," Morrigan replied. "He – what _are_ you doing?"

Yllia was already pushing back the fur blanket that had been covering her, throwing her legs over the side of the bed. She reeled for a moment, holding herself perfectly still as she waited out the vertigo her sudden movement had caused. The moment it passed, she started for the cottage door.

Morrigan cleared her throat. "Far be it for me to dissuade you from making your own decisions," she said, "but if you're that intent on pulling your friend out of his brooding state, you may want to rethink your choice of wardrobe first." She paused for half a beat, then added, "Then again, going out as you are might actually do _wonders_ for his mood."

Yllia froze, hand on the door, and looked down.

Her face colored at the sight of nothing but bare flesh and smallclothes, the flush sweeping down her neck and shoulders. She stepped back from the door and slowly turned back to Morrigan, unable to meet the other woman's gaze. "I don't suppose you know where my clothes are?"

**

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

**

Alistair's back was to the cottage when she finally emerged, this time fully clothed in what remained of her robes, her feet shoved into a pair of Morrigan's boots – her own had apparently not cleaned as well as the rest of her belongings and couldn't be salvaged. It made for awkward movement, as Morrigan was taller than Yllia and her feet a few sizes larger. At least she didn't have to wear Morrigan's _clothing_.

When she paused behind him, trying to figure out how to announce her presence, he suddenly turned and met her eyes.

All thoughts of finding something to say flew from Yllia's mind; there were no words that seemed appropriate in the face of the depth of emotion that she saw in Alistair's eyes. Raw pain, fierce anger, and crushing vulnerability warred for supremacy, and for once Yllia didn't care about appearances – she closed the distance between the two of them and threw her arms around him, holding on tight.

She felt him tense briefly, but then his arms came up as well, his grip just as crushing. They stood like that silently for several minutes, both of them lost in thoughts and memories of the ordeal that they had somehow managed to survive. Yllia closed her eyes and pressed her face against his chest, drawing in a deep breath. She relished the solid feel of his arms, the very real scent of his armor and skin that screamed that they were _alive_.

Then they were suddenly breaking apart, releasing each other and stepping back in unison, as if they'd just realized the number of personal boundaries that they had both overstepped. She wrapped her arms around her waist, and he shoved his hand through his hair, causing the short strands to stick up in scattered directions as they perfected the art of not looking each other in the eye.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked, breaking the stretching silence first.

Yllia nodded, her hair falling over her eyes from the motion. She hadn't taken the time to retie it, and the longer strands obscured parts of her face. "Are _you_?" she asked.

"Physically a little sore, but nothing that won't go away in time," he replied. "Morrigan and her mother fixed us both up, I guess. Other than that…" His expression darkened. "Did she tell you what happened?"

She nodded, and watched the muscles in his throat and jaw work as he clenched them. "I don't want to believe it," he said fiercely. "Teryn Loghain…he was King Maric's closest friend and ally. Why would he _abandon_ Maric's son? It's got to be some kind of mistake!"

Yllia bit her lip, and then placed her hand on his arm, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "I saw it, Alistair," she said. He stiffened. "When I lit the beacon, I had a clear view of the battlefield. I saw Loghain's army pulling back."

His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment she saw a flash of defiance – she flinched automatically, bracing herself for denials and accusations, for him to tell her that she was lying, that she couldn't have seen what she said she saw. She knew that look too well; she'd seen in on the face of more than one Templar in her lifetime.

Instead of unleashing his anger out on her, he pulled back from her hand and turned, gripping the wooden fence behind him. Alistair closed his eyes and hung his head. "Why?" he asked in a low voice. "Why would Loghain do it? I don't _understand_."

She heard the rawness in his voice, and something inside her snapped. "I don't understand it, either," she said, "but we're not going to find the answers standing around here. The darkspawn aren't going to stop at Ostagar. There's nothing between them and the rest of Ferelden now – except for _us_."

"Us?" Alistair let out a sharp laugh. "We are exactly _two_ – count, two - Grey Wardens. An entire army couldn't stop the darkspawn – what makes you think _we_ can?"

"What makes you think we can't?" Yllia countered. "Think about it for a moment, Alistair. We may be the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden now, but we certainly aren't the only people. Didn't Duncan say at one point that not all of the armies made it to Ostagar before the darkspawn attacked? That means there may still be help out there that we could go to." She looked at him searchingly. She knew next to nothing about the politics of the world outside of the Circle – she was going on a little theory and a lot of hope, but it was going to be Alistair who would need to fill in the gaps for her.

Some of his brief cynicism had vanished while she'd been talking, and she could practically see the light coming into his eyes as her words registered.

"Your friend speaks much truth." Yllia started and turned to see Flemeth approaching them from…wherever it was she had been apparently lurking during their conversation. The old witch's eyes were on Alistair as she spoke, and she raised an eyebrow at him. "See? As I told you, she is alive and well. He was quite worried for you, you know." This last was directed to Yllia, and the words brought another hint of red to his face. Yllia's as well, as she recalled their unexpected embrace of relief. She still couldn't quite believe she'd been that bold – and from the slight smirk on Flemeth's face, she was fairly certain the other mage had seen it all.

Yllia was glad she'd left her hair down, because it made an excellent shield to hide her own expression. "I understand we owe you thanks," she said humbly. "Morrigan told me that you were the one who brought us down off of the tower."

Flemeth nodded, merely accepting the thanks with little fanfare. "I did," she confirmed, "with a bit of magic. Given the number of darkspawn swarming that tower, it appears that I got there none too soon."

"Why?" Alistair asked abruptly. "Why save us?"

She inclined her head slightly, regarding the two of them. "We cannot have _all_ the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? It has always been their duty to unite the lands against the Blight – or did that change while I wasn't looking?"

Since Yllia had said nearly the same thing just moments earlier, Alistair looked rather chagrined.

"Of course it didn't change," Yllia said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. "But we're in a precarious position now." She looked at Alistair. "Duncan could barely convince the nobles that we were facing a Blight, and he was the Warden-Commander."

Alistair nodded in agreement to that. "We could declare it a Blight until we're blue in the face," he said, "but if no one believes us then it's like we're talking to stone. And…if Loghain really _did_ betray us…" He looked frustrated again. "I don't understand why he'd do this!"

"Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature," Flemeth murmured, and her words sent a shiver sliding down Yllia's spine. She dug her nails a little into her arms. "Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the _true_ threat. The archdemon."

An image of a dragon against a green-lit sky made Yllia's throat tighten. She hadn't dreamed of it again, but she didn't have to in order to remember what she had seen; her dreams always stayed with her, as vivid and detailed as if they were part of her everyday life. As she recalled the way the dragon had turned its gaze upon her she shoved it into the back of her mind, focusing on Flemeth and Alistair so that she didn't get lost in her thoughts.

"The archdemons are supposed to be the Old Gods of Tevinter, right?" Yllia asked, recalling the conversation she and Alistair had had…Maker, had it only been a few days earlier? She had no recollection of the passage of time. Morrigan had said a few days, but to Yllia's memory it had been less than that – and yet it felt like so much longer.

"According to the tales," Flemeth replied, "it is said that long ago, the Maker sent the Old Gods of the ancient Tevinter Imperium to slumber in prisons deep beneath the surface. An archdemon is supposedly one of the Old Gods awakened and tainted by the darkspawn. History says that it is a fearsome and immortal thing – and only fools ignore history." There was no mistaking the derision in her tone, and Yllia felt herself agreeing. History stated that four Blights had already come to pass – four archdemons. Why was it so hard to convince people that another had come upon them?

Flemeth's confirmation of what Alistair had told her before didn't offer Yllia much comfort. "What reason could Loghain have for betraying the king?" she asked. "The throne? He's the queen's father, right?"

Alistair nodded. "Yes, but I can't see how he'll get away with murder."

"You speak as if he were the first king to gain his throne that way," Flemeth snapped, causing Alistair to jump. "Grow up, boy!"

Alistair narrowed his eyes at the admonishment, and his own voice grew sharp with unexpected authority. "If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he would _never_ stand for it! The Landsmeet would never stand for it! Ferelden would fall into civil war!"

"Who's Arl Eamon?" Yllia asked, turning to Alistair.

He looked at her. "Arl Eamon is the Arl of Redcliffe," he replied – and then paused, bringing his hand to his chin in thought. "Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar; he never answered the king's summons, I'm not sure why. He'll still have all of his men, _and_ he was Cailan's uncle."

Understanding dawned on Yllia, and she looked at Alistair eagerly. "Do you think he'd be able to help us?" she asked. "If we go to Redcliffe…"

"We could appeal to him for help!" Alistair's expression suddenly grew animated. "He's a good man, and well respected – the Landsmeet would listen to him." But then, almost as quickly as their hopes had risen, he suddenly looked uncertain. "But I don't know if his help would be enough. He's got an army, true, but it's not as if he can defeat the darkspawn horde by himself."

A somewhat secretive smile spread across Flemeth's face, as if she had thought of something that neither of them had. "You have more at your disposal than you think," she hinted to them both.

Yllia and Alistair looked at each other for a moment.

"The treaties!" they exclaimed in unison. "Of course!" Alistair continued. "With those treaties, we can enlist aid from dwarves, elves, mages – all over! They're _obligated_ to help us during a Blight!"

"I may be old," Flemeth said slyly, "but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon and who knows what else…this sounds like an army to me."

Not even Yllia's hair could hide the shine in her eyes. "If we can go to them, convince them that we're facing a Blight and get their aid, then we'd have enough of an alliance to face off against the darkspawn," she said. Counting the mages in the Circle Tower alone and given magic's effectiveness against the darkspawn, she could already see what a valuable asset it could prove to be. "And if Arl Eamon can help us, we stand a chance of exposing Loghain for his betrayal and keeping Ferelden from civil war." She reached up and brushed her hair back, tucking the loose strands behind her ear. "And as easy as it was to _say_ all of that, it's not going to be easy to do, is it?"

"When has it ever?" Alistair asked dryly. He pressed his lips together, and all trace of his earlier vulnerability and uncertainty had vanished. "It's always been the Grey Wardens duty to stand against a Blight – and right now, _we're_ the Grey Wardens. That means it's up to us to see this through."

"Whatever we have to do," Yllia murmured softly.

Flemeth crossed her arms over her chest. "So you are set, then?" she asked. "Ready to be Grey Wardens?"

Yllia and Alistair looked at each other, and then gave quick nods of ascent. Yllia looked back at Flemeth, and despite her misgivings at dealing with the Witch, and the uneasiness that she still felt when she thought back to the last time they had met, the situation was urgent enough for her to set those aside. "Is there anything else you could offer to help?" she asked. "Anything at all?"

Flemeth looked at her for a moment, and their eyes met. She tilted her head to one side, regarding Yllia thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it," she said, "I _do_ have one more thing."

**

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

**

"Tell me I'm not the only one who thinks that this is a bad idea," Alistair muttered to Yllia as the two of them knelt with their packs, rearranging the various potions, herbs, and other bits of supplies that Flemeth had offered to them for their journey.

"Oh, come on," Yllia replied, doing her best to keep her tone light. "It might not be that bad."

"Not that bad?" he repeated incredulously. "Well, at least I know who to hold responsible if I wake up one morning in the body of a toad."

She grinned at him, shoving the last of the potions into her pack and tying it off, looking over at Morrigan. The other mage was standing off to the side with a pack of her own sitting at her feet, looking rather put out.

Flemeth's offer, as it turned out, had been in the form of her own daughter – and she hadn't exactly left the option open to negotiation. Of course, Alistair had protested, but Yllia had placated him by pointing out that Morrigan was not only better equipped to lead them out of the Wilds intact, but also that her magic would likely come in handy. Morrigan had added in a few biting remarks of her own, aimed in Alistair's direction, but in the end the decision had been made – Morrigan would join them on their journey, wherever it would end up leading them.

They'd eaten a quick meal, and Yllia had taken some time to do her hair – it was more practical to keep it out of her eyes – and now they were preparing to go. Alistair had suggested that they wait until morning, as much of the day was already gone, but Flemeth had told them in no uncertain terms that they were to depart from the Wilds _immediately._

Whether she was simply tired of having them at her house, or there was some more pressing reason for their departure, Yllia didn't know – but she was inclined to listen to the older mage. As crazy as some of them ended up being, Flemeth did not leave the impression that she wasted her words.

With packs filled and tied, and armor and weapons in as good a shape as they were going to be, the two of them stood up and walked over to where Morrigan stood waiting. "Ready to go then, are we?" she asked, skipping all greeting. "Since it appears I have little choice in this matter, I have given some thought to where our destination should lie."

"Really now?" Alistair asked, raising an eyebrow. "Some thought?"

Yllia shot him a warning look. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"The supplies Mother has given us will not last for long," Morrigan replied, "and 'twill be difficult to reach any of the larger holdings without replenishing. The two of you could also, I might add, do with some replacements to your attire."

Yllia looked down at her tattered once-robes ruefully, and then eyed the dents and cracks that lines Alistair's own armor. "You could say that," she said.

"There is a village of some note a few days journey from the Wilds called Lothering," Morrigan continued. "I have been there on occasion, and know the way. We _should_ be able to find what we need there."

"Lothering's right in the middle of the old Imperial Highway and it's still used as a hub in the trade route," Alistair said with a nod, looking like he'd rather eat roast spider than agree with Morrigan. "We might not only be able to find supplies there, but also information."

"That'd be just as useful," Yllia agreed. She nodded. "All right, then. We'll head for Lothering."


	6. Chance Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two roads converge, and unexpected meetings lead to unexpected friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Teakwood, my wonderful and patient beta, who doesn't hesitate to tell me when my writing is getting too insane. My slumps end much faster because of him.

Despite Morrigan's knowledge of the Wilds and surrounding areas, the trek to Lothering proved to be longer and more hazardous than Yllia had prepared herself for. The Wilds were so heavily inundated with darkspawn now that the horde had breached Ostagar that avoiding confrontations was like attempting to smuggle a fresh catch of fish past a hungry cat. Yllia was still too new to being a Grey Warden to reliably be able to sense their presence, and while Alistair could usually get the warning out it appeared to work both ways – if Alistair could sense them, _they_ could sense _Alistair_ , and from the way the small ambushes came down upon them it seemed that Grey Warden was high on the menu these days.

Yllia was only a little envious that the darkspawn could make meals of Grey Wardens, but Wardens couldn't do the opposite.

Which went to show just _how_ much Yllia's appetite had actually increased.

"When we get to Lothering," she said, walking alongside Alistair, "I am going to go to the first tavern I see, drop half of our coin, and eat _anything_ they have on the menu. How can you not be starving?"

Alistair chuckled. "I've had six months to get used to my appetite," he replied. "You should have seen me when I first Joined, though. No one warned me about it – I'm sure they thought it would be great fun to see how I'd react."

Yllia sensed a story there. "What happened?" she asked with curiosity.

He looked sheepish. "I got caught with gravy all over my face and crumbs down the front of my shirt, tucked in the corner of the larder with a guilty look so wide-eyed I've been told I looked as if my eyes were about to fall out of my head."

"Oh my." Yllia quickly brought her hand to her mouth to hide the smile that she was failing to keep back. "That must have been quite a…sight."

"Yes, and now that I've got my appetite under control, it's not one you're going to be seeing any time soon," Alistair said firmly. "Instead it's my turn to watch you make a fool of yourself as you try to satisfy the beast in your belly."

"If I don't get something that isn't a rodent or a bird in the 'beast' soon, I might try to satisfy it with _you_ ," she said dryly, rubbing her stomach through her robes. It gave her an answering growl, and scowled a little. She was past being embarrassed by it – between Alistair's teasing and Morrigan's remarks, she'd learned the taper down her blushes. That didn't mean she didn't find her growing appetite inconvenient, however, and she wanted it to _know_ that.

"Might want to check in with our guide on that one, then," Alistair said dryly. "We left the Wilds about an hour ago, but I don't see signs of a town or village anywhere. And the farms…" His voice trailed off, and Yllia pressed her lips together. They'd come across three abandoned farms now, no trace of life remaining at any of them – not even livestock. It had been impossible to know if their owners had simply relocated…of if the darkspawn were already reaching beyond the Wilds.

"Morrigan!" Yllia called up ahead, signaling the other woman, who was walking several steps ahead and at a pace faster than either Warden. Yllia quickened her pace to catch up with her, wishing not for the first the time that she had an extra foot of height so that she didn't have to work so hard to match Morrigan and Alistair's strides.

"What is it?" Morrigan asked when Yllia had caught up to her, not bothering to glance in her direction as Alistair caught up with them, trailing the two women.

"How much further do you think it is to Lothering?" Yllia asked. "Our food supplies are starting to run low."

"Yes, well, given the present company one should not be too surprised by that," Morrigan replied, her disdain clear in her tone. "To answer your question, we are still another day or two out from the village. I would suggest a hunt tonight if you are concerned about our rations. Or, if hunting is not to your taste, perhaps a stew of herbs and roots."

Yllia grimaced, recalling the meal that they'd had to swallow down that morning. After a disastrous attempt at letting Alistair cook their catch the night before, Yllia had gently but firmly taken over the cooking – but even she couldn't make elfroot and half-grown tubers into something palatable. "Hunting it is, then," she grumbled, wondering how they were going to manage this time. None of them were skilled in traps or snares.

A crash in the distance pulled her up short, tensing as she listened for anything further.

It came in the form of metal on metal, snarls and the baying of what was unmistakably an angry Mabari hound. Suddenly Alistair was moving past them, drawing his sword and raising his shield as he sprinted ahead. "Darkspawn!" he shouted over his shoulder, spurring Yllia and – surprisingly – Morrigan into pursuit.

Yllia saw them a moment later, as they rounded a bend. A band of seven or eight Hurlocks had two figures surrounded, flanking them on both sides and preventing a retreat. One of them was the Mabari that they had heard, his snarls and howls as he dug his teeth into the creatures sounding as his battle cries. Blood stained his dark fur, but it didn't appear to be his own – he moved unhindered, all lightning fast reflexes and sinewy muscle.

The other was human, a man no older than Yllia herself, his dark hair matted to the top of his head, his skin lined with cuts and bruises. A large gash ran from shoulder to elbow on one arm, but either he was ignoring the pain or he wasn't feeling it as he swung his massive greatsword with both hands, slicing one Hurlock in half and blocking another with the flat of his blade. He was good, but even from a distance Yllia could see that he was tiring.

She drew her staff and fired a bolt of energy at the back of the closest Hurlock, sending the creature off balance and into the ground and allowing the warrior the opportunity to drive his sword into its back for the killing shot. Alistair charged head first into the fray, holding the attention of their opponents while Yllia and Morrigan picked them off from a distance, the other warrior and the Mabari finishing off those closest to them.

Alistair knelt down and wiped his blade on the grass, ridding it of most of the blood and gore from the fight before sheathing it again. The younger warrior attempted to do the same, but the gash in his arm caused him to wince, limiting his mobility.

"Here," Yllia said, reaching into her pack and removing a poultice. She moved to him and affixed it into place on his arm, giving it a critical eye as she did so. "It's not as deep as it looks – is this an older wound? It looks half-healed."

He gave her a tired, crooked grin. "It is," he said. "I was injured while trying to get out of the Wilds. I took care of it as best as I could, but when you're running for your life it's hard to stop and pick up supplies on the way."

"You came from the Wilds?" Alistair asked, and then got a good look at the armor that he was wearing. "You're from the King's army!"

He nodded, a shadow falling across his face. "Yes," he said quietly. "One of the few who managed to get out when we realized reinforcements weren't going to be coming." He pressed his lips together. "Maybe it was cowardly to run, but…"

"Better to run and live, than to stay and die," Alistair cut in, his tone flat. Yllia looked at him in concern, but his eyes gave away nothing, no hint of what he was feeling or thinking. She suspected, however, that he was thinking about Duncan and the other Wardens, and his own guilt for having not been there to fight at their sides.

The two warriors looked at each other for a moment, and then the younger one's eyes widened slightly. "Wait… I know you! I saw you at the camp – you're a Grey Warden, aren't you?" Then he frowned. "But I don't remember seeing you in the battle…"

"We were on another mission," Yllia hurried to interject, sparing Alistair the task of answering. "When we realized that the battle was lost, we decided to try and get out of the Wilds instead. We're heading to Lothering now."

He seemed to accept her answer well enough, and his weary expression even perked a bit. "Lothering?" he repeated. "That's where I'm from – I'm trying to make my way back there, in fact. My family's there, and with the darkspawn so close I want to make sure they're all right."

Yllia looked at Alistair, and the appropriate response seemed obvious – enough so that they didn't even have to say anything before Morrigan let out a groan of exasperation. "Please do not tell me we are going to pick up _every_ stray that we stumble across on the road?" she complained.

"What's one or two more?" Alistair asked cheerfully – Morrigan's disapproval virtually guaranteed his own agreement.

Yllia smiled, and then turned back to their new companion. "It'll be safer if we travel together then, since we're heading in the same direction. We don't have much in the way of spare supplies, but you and your hound are welcome to travel with us."

"My…" He blinked, and then looked down at the dog that was standing a little ways to the side. He pushed his hand through his hair. "Oh, he's not mine. I'm not sure who he belongs to. We just sort of ended up…heading in the same direction. I think he's been…hey!"

The dog suddenly gave a leap, nearly bowling him over as he lunged straight for Yllia. She only had enough time for her eyes to widen and her hands to come up in defense before she found herself flat on her back, eighty pounds of fur and muscle standing on top of her and…

_Licking_ her?

"Hey!" Yllia laughed, reaching up to try and push back the dog. "Stop that! What are you doing? Down!"

The dog let out a bark and obediently moved back, tail wagging and ears pricked as he watched Yllia pick herself up off the ground.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked, moving to give her a hand, which she gratefully accepted.

"I'm fine," she assured him. "He just caught me off guard."

"I've never seen a Mabari act like that," Alistair said, shaking his head as he looked at the war dog. "They're usually more…reserved. Except around their masters."

Yllia looked the dog, and the dog looked at her – and suddenly her eyes lit up in recognition. "Wait – I _know_ him," she said, kneeling down again and reaching out to pet his ears. "This is the Mabari that the Kennel Master was taking care of at Ostagar, the one I picked those flowers for. I thought for sure he would have died at the battle. The Kennel Master didn't hold out much hope for his recovery – he said that his master died in an earlier skirmish."

"Mabari usually only imprint on one person," the warrior said, watching them, "but they've been known to adopt a second master under unusual circumstances. If you helped save his life that would probably do it – he must have gotten free of the kennel and gone looking for you."

"Smart dog," Alistair said with a grin as the dog leaned into Yllia's ear-scratching.

"Must I repeat what I _just_ said about strays?" Morrigan muttered.

"Oh, hush," Yllia admonished Morrigan with a smile, rising to her feet. "If he _has_ imprinted on me, he'll just follow us anyway. I want him along." The Mabari let out a sharp bark and pranced on the toes of his paws, acting more like a puppy than a full-grown war dog.

She turned back to the warrior and extended her hand to him. "Since we'll be traveling together for a bit, we should introduce ourselves. I'm Yllia Surana, and my companions are Alistair and Morrigan."

He reached out the grasp her hand. "Carver Hawke," he replied, not bothering to hide the relief that he wasn't going to simply be abandoned. "And thank you – the company will be well appreciated, and I mean that in both the survival _and_ the friendly sense."

"Are we quite done, then?" Morrigan cut in impatiently. "Because while _talking_ about reaching Lothering is all well and good, unless we start moving our feet we shall never complete the journey."

Carver looked startled, and then looked at Alistair and Yllia as if to ask, 'Is she _always_ like this?'

All Yllia could do with shrug, nod, and smile.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

The sky was making the transition from pink to purple when they stopped to set up camp for the night, taking refuge in a clearing that had likely been pasture for a farm at one point, but was as abandoned as the rest that they had stumbled across. Morrigan wasn't thrilled about being so open and exposed, but they had long since passed out of the Wilds, and there was nothing but flat land as far as they could see.

By this point camp had become routine – they'd set up their tents and bedrolls first, and then either Yllia or Morrigan would tend to the fire, leaving the other to prepare a meal out of whatever they managed to scrape together. Luck proved to be on their side; with the help of the dog to chase them out of their burrow, Alistair and Carver managed to snare two decent-sized rabbits that could be split between the five of them. It was enough to take the edge off of Yllia's appetite.

Morrigan, of course, didn't share the meal with them – from the start she had kept herself apart, bedding down away from Yllia and Alistair, and with the two new additions to their ragtag group she appeared even less inclined to be social. The rest of them settled around the fire, keeping up casual conversation as they made short work of their improvised stews.

More than once Yllia noticed Carver casting a sidelong glance in the direction of her staff, which she had lying on the ground beside her, and she could read the questions in his eyes. But he never voiced them, and she opted not to approach the matter first – he'd seen her use magic against the darkspawn and it had effectively saved his life, so she would leave it up to him to determine if trouble should be made over it.

When they were all finished eating and the rest of their belongings stashed back into the packs, Carver retreated into one of the tents for the night and left Alistair and Yllia alone by the fire. The dog curled up next to Yllia, resting his head on his paws, and she absently reached out to run her hand along his broad back.

"You're going to need to come up with a name for him," Alistair commented after a moment of watching her.

"I know," Yllia replied, her eyes on the fire. "I want it to be the right name, though, so I'm going to think on it. I don't want to give him a name he won't like."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll like any name that you give him," Alistair said, and his light tone drew her gaze away from the flames and onto him. She met his eyes and he gave her a soft, slightly shy smile that she couldn't help but return. After a moment, though, he glanced away. "You should get some sleep. I'll take the first watch tonight."

Were his cheeks red, or was it just the reflection of the firelight on his skin?

It had to be the fire – it would explain the heat she felt on her own face as well. She quickly looked back to it.

But the reminder of sleep made her uneasy and she shifted, tucking her knees up under her chin and clasping her arms around them. "I'm not ready to turn in yet," she murmured. "I can take first watch if you want."

He didn't say anything for a moment, and when she dared to glance at him again she found his eyes fixed on her again. The intensity behind the gaze made her throat tighten, and she swallowed in an attempt to clear it.

"You're not sleeping well, are you?"

Yllia looked up, startled. Hastily she sought to cover her reaction, to compose herself and laugh off his question. "What gave you that idea?" she asked lightly. "Just because I'm not ready to sleep yet? The moon isn't even at its halfway point – there's still plenty of night left. Don't worry about me. I'm fine."

She knew in a heartbeat that she hadn't convinced him – it was written all over his face. In the days since they'd departed for Lothering she had learned one very important fact about Alistair – he had _no_ poker face. All his thoughts, his emotions, were laid bare for the world to see when he felt them, and she could see his concern and worry as clear as if she were actually reading his mind. Which she wasn't.

Again she thought of Jowan, and again she pushed those thoughts from her mind. Dwelling on things of the past would get her nowhere in the uncertain future that stretched out before her. Jowan had made her choices; she, hers.

"Is it the nightmares?" Alistair pressed, his gaze intent upon hers. She swallowed – those eyes of his had a way of disarming her, and she didn't know _why_. It was unnerving, but what was even _more_ unnerving was that she had not yet figured out whether it bothered her or not. She'd kept most people at a distance her entire life; the number of true friends she'd had could be counted on a single hand, and all of them were now beyond her reach.

In response to Alistair's question she drew her legs to her chest a little more snugly. "…Maybe," she said softly. It was only a half-truth; the nightmares _were_ the reason she didn't want to sleep, but not because they'd been disturbing her rest.

It was that she feared the archdemon's eyes upon her again.

"Alistair? When you have your nightmares – what do you see?"

His brow furrowed slightly. "What do I see?" he repeated. "Just…darkspawn, I suppose. And the archdemon, more recently. But I don't have them as often as I did when I first went through my Joining."

"What about…lights?" She brushed a few loose strands of hair back from her face. "Six white lights in the sky, just…hovering. I don't know what they are, and they don't do anything. They're just _there._ "

"No…" Alistair drew out of the word slowly, contemplating it. He shook his head. "Can't say I've ever seen _that_ in my nightmares. But not every Grey Warden experiences the same thing, and not every Warden has the same amount, either. For most, the nightmares go away after awhile." He looked back into the fire for a moment. "Until it's time for the Calling, at any rate."

"The Calling?" Yllia sat up straighter, tilting her head to one side. This was a term that he hadn't mentioned yet, and judging from his expression she had a feeling she wasn't going to especially like what he had to say.

Alistair sighed. "I wasn't sure how to go about telling you this part," he admitted. "There's a price to gaining the abilities that we get from mastering the taint. In exchange for the ability to sense them, the extra strength and senses, the ravenous appetite and the nightmares, we also get only about thirty years to enjoy them."

"Thirty years?" Yllia clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized how loudly she'd just spoken and glanced quickly at the tent that Carver had retired to. When there was no sound from within, she lowered her hand and hushed her voice. "What do you mean, thirty years?"

"I think I already told you that the Joining doesn't make us immune to the taint, it just takes longer to act?" Yllia nodded. "Well, on average it takes thirty years. Once a Grey Warden reaches that point, they start having the nightmares again…and they start to hear the same call that the darkspawn hear. The call of the archdemon. Eventually, it drives them mad, and then eventually kills them."

Yllia's throat tightened, and she stared at him. "Mad?" she whispered.

Alistair nodded. "Most Grey Wardens, though, don't wait for the insanity to set in," he said. "Instead they travel to the Deep Roads to embark on a tradition known as The Calling. They descend underground to live out their last days, seeking death at the hands of the darkspawn, and taking down as many of them as they can. A warrior's death on the battlefield, such as it is." He picked up a piece of tinder and chucked it into the fire, sending sparks dancing up into the air. "Duncan…was starting to have the nightmares again. He told me so, before the battle at Ostagar. I think he was hoping to hold them off until after the Blight, but…" His voice trailed off, the grief and sadness that he had been fighting back since they had left Flemeth's hut coming to the surface once again.

"He died a warrior's death against the darkspawn," Yllia said softly. Although she hadn't been there, she _knew_ that Duncan would have gone down fighting. She'd known him just long enough to know that to do otherwise would go against his very nature. "I'm sure that's what he would have wanted."

"I suppose." Alistair took a deep breath, and then slowly released it. "You know…if it weren't for Duncan, I'd probably be a Templar right now, trapped by the confines of the Chantry and addicted to lyrium. I didn't want it, but I had no other option…nowhere else to go. The Revered Mother didn't want to give me up, either – Duncan had to use the Rite of Conscription.

"Becoming a Grey Warden was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. It gave me _purpose_ in a life where I thought I had none. Even the disadvantages don't outweigh the good of the cause – and if you ask me, the duty of the Grey Wardens is far nobler than that of the Order. If I had to make the choice all over again, I wouldn't hesitate. And I'm not going to…to let losing Duncan and the other Wardens hold me back. I'm going to keep fighting. For them, and for me."

He paused suddenly, and looked to his left. Yllia had moved while he'd spoken, coming around to his side of the fire and settling down next to him. Alistair couldn't hide his surprise when she placed her hand on his arm.

"I think Duncan would be proud to hear you say that," Yllia said, giving him a gentle smile. "He'd want us to continue the fight – and that's what we're going to do. We'll find the Arl of Redcliffe, we'll use the treaties, and we'll do whatever we have to do in order to stop the Blight."

"Or die trying? "Alistair asked in a failing attempt at humor.

"We're not going to die." The two of them fell silent, simply looking at each other for several moments. Alistair was distinctly aware of their closeness, of her hand on his arm – he swore he could feel the heat of her touch through the metal of his gauntlet. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly going dry.

Then she pulled back her hand. "I think I'm going to try and sleep now," she said. "You're still all right taking first watch?"

Whatever the moment had been passed, and Alistair took a deep breath and nodded. "Not a problem," he said.

"Okay." And then, before he could say anything, she shifted and stretched out on the ground, her head resting on his leg like it was a pillow. He froze, staring down at her.

"Ah…Ylllia…?"

She closed her eyes, her body visibly relaxing. "Please?" she murmured. "I don't...want to try to sleep alone right now." She couldn't hide the tremor in her voice.

And Alistair didn't have the heart to object. Looking down at her, she suddenly seemed smaller and more fragile than she did when she was fully awake and alert. "It's fine," he replied. "Get some sleep. I'll wake you when it's time to switch shifts."

She didn't reply, the even sound of her breathing signaling that she had already drifted off.

Alistair took another deep breath to try and still his quickening heart, and tilted his head back to stare up at the night sky. ' _Maker help me,_ ' he thought, ' _this is going to be a long night._ '

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Alistair said nothing to Yllia in the morning about her impromptu use of his leg as a pillow. Yllia said nothing to Alistair about his failing to wake her up for the second watch, despite waking up in one of the two tents when the first rays of sun peered in through the thin cloth.

When she emerged, blinking and rubbing her eyes, Carver was in the process of dousing the fire, and Morrigan was moving about her small campsite as well. The dog had taken up a position outside of her tent – she nearly tripped over him in the attempt to get out. Alistair was nowhere in sight; the flap of the second tent was still shut.

Carver looked up and gave her a welcoming smile. "Good morning," he said. "I hope you don't mind that I took third watch. I don't think Alistair felt like trying to wake Morrigan. Can't say I blame him."

She returned his smile easily. "It's fine, and appreciated," she assured him. "How's your arm?"

"Sore as hell, but healing up." Carver nodded down to it – he had his armor in place, covering the injury. "Once I get back to Lothering I can have my sister look at it."

"Your sister has medical training?" Yllia asked, taking out the ties in her hair and combing her fingers through it. She didn't usually sleep with them in, and her hair fell around her head in crinkling waves as a result. "That must be useful."

"She has…some skill," Carver replied evasively. "Learned it from our father. I'm used to going to her with my scrapes and bruises – I missed her something fierce at Ostagar." Almost as soon as the word fell from his lips did he stop, his expression growing solemn. It was as though it were inappropriate to mention the place in light conversation. Yllia wondered if there would ever come a day when it would be _easy_ to speak of the events at Ostagar, and suspected that that day would only come when the last of the survivors arrived at the side of the Maker.

She sought another topic. "How long do you think it will take us to reach Lothering from here?" she asked.

He thought for a moment, eyes scanning the landscape around them. "We made good time yesterday – I'd say we ought to reach it by evening today unless something comes up. I'm not sure how long you were planning on staying, but you'll at least have to overnight in Lothering."

"I hadn't thought as far ahead as how long we'll be there," Yllia admitted. "Our plan is to head up towards Redcliffe, but we wanted to stop for supplies before setting out. Most of what we brought with us is gone already." Her stomach growled insistently, as if the emphasize her words. "We have a bit of the stew from last night left, don't we?"

Carver nodded in the direction of the dingy, silver pot that had become their lone cooking implement. "I put it by the fire to get it warm," he said, then trailed off as he watched Yllia practically pounce upon it. She had the presence of mind to leave enough for Alistair and Morrigan to split, but as she devoured what little she claimed, she found herself hoping fervently that her appetite would find some sort of balance within her soon. She _couldn't_ keep going like this, not if they were going to be on the road for the next several weeks. They'd end up spending all their coin on food alone.

"I see your appetite hasn't relented any," Morrigan said as she approached them then, kneeling beside the pot to take some food for herself. Yllia watched her closely – she wouldn't put it past the other mage to purposefully take more than her share just to deny Alistair his, but that morning Morrigan didn't appear to be in a hurry to instigate petty squabbles. The dark-haired woman tucked her legs beneath her as she sat at the fire. "Do we intend to let the fourth member of our little party lay in until he sees fit to rise, or shall we wake him before the sun reaches its apex?"

Maybe Yllia had been too hasty to discount the petty squabble angle.

"I could do it simply enough," Morrigan added. "A well-aimed lightning bolt…"

Carver's eyes widened and the tent flap flew up. "I'm awake," Alistair said irritably, glaring in Morrigan's direction. "No need for fireballs or lightning bolts. I'm perfectly capable for getting myself awake on my own."

"Really now?" Morrigan raised an eyebrow.

Yllia jumped in before Morrigan could get Alistair riled up. "There's some stew left for you," she said hastily. "Carver thinks we'll make it to Lothering by evening, so why don't we start packing up the camp after you eat?"

Alistair nodded. His eyes met hers and she quickly looked away, rising to her feet to put her now empty bowl back into her pack. Looking at him made her flustered after remembering the night before, and she couldn't afford that right now. She had to figure out what they were going to do once they reached Lothering.

The dog got to his feet, tail wagging as she approached, and she couldn't help but smile and kneel to scratch his ears. "Yes, you're coming, too, Rhys," she said. "I won't leave you behind."

"Rhys?" Alistair repeated. "So you thought of a name?"

Yllia nodded. "It means 'enthusiasm'," she said. "And he's certainly enthusiastic, isn't he?"

Rhys ran around in a circle and let out a fervent bark of agreement.

Yllia couldn't help but smile, feeling lighter more at ease than she had in quite awhile. She cherished the feeling, for she knew that there was no way to know how long it would last.


	7. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are no chance meetings, no coincidences – only steps in a grand design.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, both the Warden and Hawke that will be featured in my story are, in fact, based off of the versions I played in my own runthroughs, including design and personality. I thought about using the default Hawke but...nahhh. :D And as always, major thanks to my beta, Teakwood, for being extremely patient with my inability to keep to a proper Skype schedule despite a four hour time difference.

Yllia wasn't sure what she had been expecting once they'd reached Lothering, but she was unprepared for the sight that stretched out before her as they stood at the crest of a hill, the road into the village stretched out before them.

The village itself was not very large – according to Carver and Morrigan, most of the residents of Lothering were farmers who held land in the surrounding areas, and didn't actually live in the main village. It was the merchants that served the traders and travelers that made up the majority of the village proper population. But, Carver had assured them, they'd be able to get food and supplies, and likely even a room for the night at the local inn, though they would possibly have to double up. Yllia didn't mind that – if it meant sleeping in a bed for one night instead of a tent, she'd gladly share a room with _three_ Morrigans if necessary.

But what Yllia had not been prepared for – what _none_ of them had been prepared for – was the sight of the rows upon rows of refugee tents set up around Lothering, near surrounding the entirety of the village. The sight of it made her mouth go dry and her stomach twist with dread.

"So this is what happened to the owners of those farms we passed," Alistair said quietly, speaking out loud the very thoughts Yllia herself was thinking.

Refugees, displaced by the Blight, fleeing from the darkspawn that encroached upon the land. Running before it was too late to run, taking only that which they could carry and abandoning everything else. Makeshift tent after makeshift tent lined the outskirts of the village, and the sight of it made her throat tighten.

"They can't stay here," she said, shaking her head. "The darkspawn…there is _nothing_ between the Wilds and Lothering. The darkspawn will come, and there won't be anything to stop them."

"Try telling them that." Carver's tone was bitter, and he made no attempt to hide it. It drew a look of surprise from Yllia and Alistair both – Carver had been cordial enough during their travels, even friendly when he wasn't focused on other things. "The general populace of Lothering is a stubborn lot, and if the refugees have camped here it's because they either lack the ability to move further, or they think _here_ is far enough. They probably believe that if they just wait it out, they'll be able to return to their freeholds and everything will simply be waiting for them as it was."

"This sounds like a subject that's come up before," Alistair said cautiously.

Carver's expression darkened – and then he sighed. "By the time recruiters came through Lothering, the darkspawn were already growing in force," he said. "My brother, along with some of the other freeholders, had been petitioning for a forced evacuation. Most of the locals rebelled against the idea. Even the Chantry wouldn't support it. Most of the people who live in Lothering have lived here their whole lives and can't imagine living anywhere else." He shifted uncomfortably. "I argued with my brother about it a lot…but after what I saw at Ostagar…"

"You think he might have been right?" Yllia asked gently.

Carver scowled, giving the sense that he disliked admitting such a thing. "Maybe," he said gruffly, acknowledging as much as he was ever likely to. He pushed his hand through his hair. "Come on. I'll help you secure a room at the tavern before I head for my family's freehold." He started forward, but Morrigan's voice halted him.

"It would appear that either Lothering has deigned to send us a welcoming party," she said, affecting a bored tone, "or else we have yet one more obstacle in our path before reaching our destination."

Yllia saw instantly what she was referring to – a group of armored men milling around the only entrance into the village, and what appeared to be what was left of pillaged wagons scattered around them. She sighed. "Are those…?"

"Bandits," Alistair said grimly, Rhys' growls punctuating the word. He looked at Yllia. "How do you want to handle this?"

"At this point?" Yllia twitched in irritation before starting forward, expecting them to follow her. "I just might set them all on fire if it'll get us to food and a real bed faster."

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Yllia was in a far better mood once they had managed to dispatch the bandits – they'd attempted the 'reasonable' course of action, but the bandits' clear willingness to prey on the weak in such a time of strife had frayed Yllia's final thread of patience, and they hadn't been able to avoid the fight. Their coin purses were, however, far fuller when they were finished, and after getting word out to the refugees that the bandits were gone and most of what they'd absconded was waiting to be reclaimed, they'd set out for the tavern. Alistair and Carver had opted to make the arrangements, leaving the women and the dog waiting for them.

Yllia knew there were issues the moment the two warriors emerged from the building and she saw the look of exasperation upon Alistair's face.

"Let me guess," Morrigan said dryly. "The innkeeper is unable to meet our needs so far as procuring accommodations for the night?"

"Every room is full up," Alistair confirmed with a shake of his head. "With this many refugees I shouldn't be surprised, but it poses an issue for us."

Yllia knew her disappointment was showing. "So it looks like we'll be camping out again after all." It wasn't as if they wouldn't be able to find a place to set up camp, but it made her realize that she'd been looking forward to not roughing it after the harried weeks that had passed.

"Actually, I was thinking, and I just might have a compromise to that." Carver's words drew Yllia's attention, and she looked at him with interest. "My family's freehold isn't all that far from the village proper," he continued, "and although the house itself isn't large, we've got a loft in the barn that's big enough for two or three people. It wouldn't be _quite_ the same, but it'd be solid shelter and at the very least we'd be able to provide clean linens and a meal."

The words 'clean' and 'meal' immediately caused Yllia to perk up again, and Alistair almost laughed at the look on her face. Almost. He didn't fancy being on the wrong end of an ice spell, or worse, a lightning bolt. He did, however, manage a fairly broad grin.

In the end they agreed – eagerly on Yllia and Alistair's part, reluctantly on Morrigan's – to seek out Carver's family and request lodging for the night. Because none of them wanted to linger in the village for longer than they had to, Yllia split her coin with her two companions, requesting Morrigan to see about replenishing their supplies and tasking Alistair to find them some deals on armor – and to touch base with the Chantry and see about warning them about the onrushing flux of darkspawn that were making swift progress northward. Carver gave them instructions on how to reach his family's freehold, and the group parted ways.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

The Hawke freehold, Yllia was pleasantly surprised to discover, was well-kept and maintained despite the conditions that she had seen in Lothering itself. Not the largest of the freeholds by far, it sported a modest one-story house, a barn that looked as if it had been refurbished a couple of times over, and a menagerie of chickens and cows corralled in fenced-in pens that were just big enough to be manageable but not so small as to be cruel to the animals within.

"It isn't much," Carver said diplomatically as he undid the latch of the front gate, "but its home." He took a moment to stand there and stare, unable to hide the emotion in his eyes. He'd very near given up on ever seeing the place that he had called come for the last ten years. Yet now, here he was – home at last.

"It's lovely," Yllia said, and meant it. The only place that she could even come close to calling home had been Kinloch Hold, and could a prison really be called such? It was simply the place she had lived for sixteen years – not _home_.

Carver's cheeks flushed slightly, and he managed a slight grin. "My mother will like hearing that," he said. He closed the gate once Rhys was through, the Mabari gluing himself to Yllia's side, and motioned for her to follow him.

They hadn't taken more than two steps before Rhys suddenly planted himself directly in front of them, ears pricked and fur standing on end. His muscles tensed and trembled – and then he released the loudest, deepest bark that Yllia had ever heard. She had to resist the urge to clamp her hands over her sensitive elven ears – an urge which only grew stronger when an answering bark came from somewhere inside the house.

The front door sprang open and a light-furred Mabari, nearly as big as Rhys, came bounding out onto the small porch. He stood at the stop of the steps, barking furiously, glaring down the threat to his territory. Rhys' lips drew back into a snarl, baring fangs.

Carver moved instantly, shoving himself in front of Yllia and Rhys, holding up his hands. "Loch!" he said firmly. "Down! Stand _down!_ "

The warning barks ceased, but the Mabari didn't back down from his defensive position. Yllia dropped her hand to the back of Rhys' neck, lightly running her fingers through his fur in an attempt to get him to calm down as well.

Then Loch lifted his head into the air and sniffed. His ears twitched and he tilted his head, regarding Carver suspiciously – as if he weren't entirely sure that the man standing in front of him really _was_ Carver Hawke, who had been gone from Lothering and out of his sight far longer than any Mabari preferred to have one under his protection be. Carver didn't move, still keeping his hands up, until at last the giant dog relaxed and his tail began to wag.

Carver finally lowered his hands. "Good boy, Loch," he said. "Good-"

" _Carver!_ " Loch was nearly run over as a dark-haired girl in a peasant dress came running out of the house, her skirt hiked up to mid-calf so that she didn't trip over it. Carver barely had a chance to look shocked before she threw her arms around him, practically smothering him in her enthusiasm. He staggered back under the force of her hug, then laughed and hugged her back in return.

"Bethany!" he said happily, his eyes shining as he looked down at her – he had a good half a foot of height on her. Then he looked to the older woman who had emerged behind the younger, the similarity between both women so strong that there was no mistaking one was mother and one was daughter. "Mother!"

Tears sprang up in his mother's eyes as she walked swiftly towards him, reaching for him as soon as he was in reach. "Thank the Maker you're alive!" she said, as Bethany stepped back to allow Carver to give their mother a hug. "When we heard what happened at Ostagar, we feared the worst."

Carver hugged his mother tightly, closing his eyes for a moment. "It was bad," he said quietly, his expression a bit more sober when he drew back. "Getting out of there was no easy feat – but I had to get back here as quickly as I could."

Bethany noticed his arm then, her eyes widening. She reached out to put her hand on it. "You're hurt!" Immediately she grabbed his hand, tugging him towards the house. "Come inside – I'll get that taken care for you." His mother nodded, moving to his other side, both of them looking like they intended to corral Carver right into the house. It made Yllia's mouth twitch into a smile.

"Why don't the two of you give Carver a chance to breathe, and maybe introduce his companion?" Yllia looked up, startled by the sudden addition of a male tenor to the conversation, and found that it was coming from the direction of the porch.

Standing at the top of the stairs was a man slightly taller than Carver, with dark red hair that fell just past his shoulders, some of the strands tied back in braids behind his head and leaving the unruly ones to fall across his face. Yllia couldn't help but note that he was handsome, with high cheekbones and a jaw covered in the barest hint of dark stubble. Whereas Carver was more rugged in appearance, this man seemed…smoother, an air of calm around him in contrast to the sharp edge that the warrior came equipped with.

He cut an imposing figure, standing with his arms crossed, legs slightly apart, and eyes surveying the scene in front of him. But although she didn't detect any animosity in his gaze, Yllia could not help but notice that he didn't move forward to welcome Carver in the way his sister and mother had done.

And from the way that Carver suddenly tensed, looking at him with apprehension, Yllia decided that it was a fair assumption to make that _this_ was Carver's as-yet-unnamed elder brother.

"Hello, Brother," Carver said with a touch of stiffness.

Their mother looked from one son to the other. "Don't be like that," she said firmly, and at her words some of the tension between the brothers eased. Not all, but some. Neither wanted to upset their mother.

Carver looked slightly embarrassed and shifted awkward, looking away from his brother and half-turning towards Yllia. "Everyone," he said, "this is Yllia Surana. She was at Ostagar, like me…we met up on the road here and traveled together."

The older woman turned to look at Yllia for the first time. The surprise that passed over her face – that look of, ' _oh, an elf!_ ' – was expected, and Yllia let it roll off of her without comment, used to it as she was. But then her eyes went to the staff that Yllia did not bother to conceal, to the robes that she wore, and her entire body tensed for the briefest pause.

But she covered her surprise graciously, extending her hand with congenial smile. "My name is Leandra Hawke," she introduced herself. "You brought my son home?"

Carver's cheeks flushed slightly, and Yllia quickly accepted Leandra's hand and replied, "It was more of a mutual helping. My companions and I were already headed this way when we ran into Carver, so it made the most sense for us to team up together. Another blade against the darkspawn is never turned away."

"Darkspawn?" The elder Hawke son's voice was sharp, drawing Yllia's attention back to him. "It's true, then? The darkspawn have breached the Wilds?"

"Oh, it's true," Carver replied harshly. "And if you want to know how bad it is, take all the reports we've been given about their numbers and progress and multiply that about tenfold."

Leandra paled, looking at her sons in horror, and Bethany hurried to mediate her mother's shock and her brothers' animosity. She took Carver's arm, and then Leandra's. "Mother, come – help me take a look at Carver's arm. I'll feel better after I get a chance to look at it."

Leandra looked at Bethany for a brief, blank moment before determination settled across her pretty features, setting her jaw. "Of course," she said. Then she seemed to remember their guest and she stood there for a moment, torn between being a good hostess and her worry for her youngest son.

"Mother, go with Carver and Bethany," Carver's brother interjected. "I'd like to speak with our guest."

His tone was placating yet authoritative – this was a man who was used to giving the orders, but attempted to smooth the way as diplomatically as he could. Still, Yllia could see Carver's hackles rise, and it took both his sister and his mother to usher him into the house, leaving Yllia to contend with her new…adversary? Acquaintance? She couldn't tell.

So she did what she often did when faced with a situation she could not decipher, and looked at him with cool, appraising blue eyes.

He came down the porch steps then, approaching her, the heavy soles of his boots muffled against the dirt pathway that led from the gate to the steps. "Yllia Surana is it?" he asked, and she nodded.

He extended his hand. "Garrett Hawke," he introduced himself. "Most just call me 'Hawke', though. Thank you for helping my brother make it home safely."

At the civil, even friendly greeting Yllia's apprehension vanished, and she quickly shook his hand. "Of course, but I meant what I said before – it was mutual. He was a great help in dealing with the darkspawn that we encountered on the way here."

Hawke nodded slightly, giving a good-natured grin that Yllia thought suited his face far better than the serious expression he'd worn until then. "Put a plow in his hand and he trips over his feet; replace the plow with a sword and he's something to contend with." He glanced quickly over his shoulder. "Just…don't go telling him I said it. He'd take it the wrong way."

Yllia smiled slightly and revised her initial impression of Hawke – despite the antagonism she'd witnessed between the two brothers, the elder clearly cared for and respected the younger, although it didn't seem that particular view was reciprocated. She felt a slight twinge. What would it have been like to grow up with siblings? A brother or a sister, someone who was always just _there_ – someone you didn't have to always like, and who didn't always have to like you, but could nonetheless be counted on for support?

Abruptly she shoved the thoughts away. There was no point in dwelling on them – she _didn't_ have any brothers, sisters, parents, or family to speak of. Wasting time _thinking_ about it was about as productive as trying to reason with a darkspawn before it ripped out your throat.

"He won't hear it from me," she replied. "I apologize for intruding on your home – my companions are in the village replenishing our supplies, and Carver asked me to come with him."

"Mother would have insisted anyway," Hawke replied with a good-natured grin. "But I'm thinking walking Carver home is the actual reason you came with him. Let me make an educated guess – you need a place to stay for the night. Am I right?"

"How did you know?" she blurted out, unable to stop herself.

Hawke's grin turned wry. "Ever since the refugees began to flood in, the inn has been full up. Travelers either have to resort to camping on the outskirts, or making arrangements with the freeholds. We've already put up a few people here and there, though right now we've got the space available. How many people are in your party?"

"Three," Yllia started, but amended herself quickly when Rhys let out a plaintive whine. "Sorry, four. We're prepared to camp out, but to be honest, we've been doing so since we got out of the Wilds and we're all feeling a bit haggard."

Hawke nodded. "If you don't mind it being a bit cramped," he said, "we've got space enough in the loft. It's clean, if nothing else." He nodded in the direction of the freehold's barn.

"If it's a solid roof over our heads and we don't have to pitch a tent, I don't think any of us will be complaining," Yllia replied promptly. "And we'll gladly pay for the lodging."

He held up his hand and shook his head. "It isn't costing us anything letting you use our barn," he said, "so keep your coin. And if you really feel that you need to give us some form of payment, then I'll accept it in the form of Carver's safe return."

Yllia looked at him for a moment, and she couldn't help but be touched by the man's generosity. She suspected that there were people who would have taken advantage of the situation and tried to extract coin or some other form of compensation. And there were people desperate enough to have no choice but to agree to the terms. "Thank you," she said simply.

He gave her a smile, and then motioned for her to follow him. "Let me show you where the loft is," he said. "Loch! Come!"

His Mabari, who had settled down onto the porch, sprang to his feet and scrambled down the steps. He stopped and looked at Rhys for a moment – then broke into a run, his long legs eating the distance between the house and the barn in no time flat. He stopped at the entrance and looked back expectantly.

Rhys whined and looked up at Yllia, and she couldn't help smiling at her newfound pet. "Go ahead," she said.

With a happy bark, Rhys took off after Loch, the two Mabari beginning a very hectic game of tag around the barn.

Hawke chuckled. "There aren't any other Mabari here in Lothering," he said. "He doesn't get very many playmates."

"How long have you had him?" Yllia asked curiously.

"Since he was a puppy," Hawke replied. "So…about five years. He was originally supposed to be a gift for Carver and Bethany, but… well, Mabari chose who they imprint on, and he ended up attaching himself to me." He gave a 'what can you do?' shrug. "But he considers the entire family to be under his protection. What about yours?" He paused, and she could tell he was trying to be diplomatic in his next question. "I've never met an elf with a Mabari before."

"Well, he's only been mine for… officially I suppose less than a week." She related to him the story of how she'd helped to heal him, and then after the Battle of Ostagar he had somehow managed to track her down. "He tracked me all the way out of the Wilds. Carver said it means he imprinted on me."

Hawke nodded. "Sounds about right," he said. They reached the barn and he pulled open the door, propping it open so that it didn't shut behind them. He pointed up. "The loft is up there, and there's a ladder that leads up to it. Will it work?"

She nodded. "It will work," she decided.

"Good." Out of the corner of her eye she saw him come to stand next to her, crossing his arms over his chest as a serious expression settled across his face. "So you were at Ostagar as well?"

Yllia turned her head towards him. "Yes."

"A lot of information comes through Lothering from all directions. We hear a lot of things." Hawke didn't look at her, keeping his gaze straight ahead. "They say that the Grey Wardens betrayed the King at Ostagar – that they left him to die on the battlefield."

A chill slid down Yllia's spine, and she drew in a near inaudible breath. "Betrayed the king?" she repeated. "The…Wardens?"

Hawke nodded slowly. "Rumors have it that two of the Wardens were supposed to light a beacon that would signal the Teyrn's men to the field, but they didn't. The Teyrn had to pull back his men or risk losing the entire army to the darkspawn."

"And they think the Wardens did this on purpose?" Yllia was surprised at how toneless her voice was.

He didn't answer the question directly. "The Teyrn's men say that there's a chance that the Wardens who were supposed to light the beacon survived. There were two of them, they say. One, a human warrior. The other, an elven mage."

And now he looked directly at Yllia. "There's a reward out for them – dead _or_ alive."

Yllia spun to face him, her back to the rest of the barn, her staff in her hand and held defensively in front of her. Lightning crackled around her hand, dancing over her fingertips and along the length of the wood of the staff.

Blue eyes of fury stared into impassive green, and then Hawke slowly unfolded his arms and held up a hand.

With a burst of light ice particles formed around his hand, spinning in orbit around his fingers and palm. She jerked slightly in response, taking a step back and staring at him as he cancelled the spell a moment later and lowered his arm. And when he didn't make another move, she slowly relaxed her own stance.

"You're a mage," she said, staring at him. "An apostate. And you're… _very_ good at hiding it." She hadn't detected any sort of magic from him upon their meeting – not a single hint. Yet his mastery over that ice spell spoke of high levels of power that she had never seen in anyone with a rank lower than Senior Enchanter.

"I have to be," Hawke said with a shrug. "My father taught me everything he knew – how to practice my magic in secret and get stronger while still keeping it concealed. He taught Bethany, too, but her magic is more Creation than Elemental so it isn't as volatile."

"Why would you…"

"Now you know a secret of mine," Hawke replied, "and I, yours. I can't turn you over to the Teyrn without risking exposure as an apostate – my exposure _and_ my sister's."

Yllia shook her head. "I don't understand," she said. "If you weren't planning on turning us over, why even bring it up?"

"Because I need to know what the Teyrn's men and the Chantry aren't saying," Hawke said, "and I think you're the only one who can reliably tell me. But I don't want you to feel as if you have to hold anything back in order to keep your secret." He took a deep breath and shook his head. "So there it is. I know you're a Grey Warden, you know I'm an apostate. Do you mind answering my questions now?"

"Do I have a choice?" But she straightened up and slipped her staff back into its straps, cancelling out her own spell as she did so. A moment of understanding passed between the two of them, a silent acknowledgment of the deal that Hawke had just forced upon them both. "Ask your questions, Hawke."

He brushed a few stray strands of hair back from his face, tucking them behind his ear. "How bad is it?" he asked. " _Are_ we in the middle of a true Blight?"

Ah, and Yllia saw what he meant now. If she'd tried to conceal the fact that she was a Warden, he wouldn't have been able to trust her certainty. "Yes," she replied with a nod. "The archdemon hasn't made an appearance, and for that reason the nobility aren't willing to declare it – but for the Grey Wardens there's no doubt. This _is_ a Blight, and the darkspawn are advancing quickly now that Ostagar has fallen."

Weariness and worry spread across Hawke's face, and his shoulders slumped. "I was afraid of that," he said heavily. "I tried to convince the elders and the Chantry that Lothering needed to be evacuated, but no one was willing to listen. When I first started to hear the rumors about the darkspawn I just had a…feeling, you could say, that it was going to get worse. But I couldn't get them to agree." His expression darkened. "I should have taken my mother and Bethany out of here right away. Carver was already in the military's service, we could have met up with him…"

He shook his head. "But I'm not going to second guess the past. Do you have any idea how long it might take the darkspawn to reach Lothering?"

"Days, perhaps a couple weeks," Yllia replied. Always, just in the back of her mind, she could feel them – and if her weaker senses were picking up, then it could only mean that they were _numerous_. She could almost see them in her mind.

She looked at him steadily. "If you're going to get your family out of Lothering, I would suggest doing it soon."

Hawke closed his eyes, falling silent. The sound of Loch and Rhys' barking from outside the barn echoed in the silence.

He took a deep breath and pushed his hand through his hair, one of his braids coming loose from the gesture. "Thank you," he said, opening his eyes to look at her. "I appreciate you not holding back."

"If I held back, I wouldn't be able to save any lives," Yllia said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm sorry. I wish I had better news for you."

"Please, don't apologize. It's better to know how bad the situation is than to go in blindly." Hawke's expression grew serious. "Carver went into the military shortly after our father died, and I've sought to support my mother and Bethany as best as I can, keeping the farm running and keeping our home in the family. Now we're going to have to leave it all behind."

Another head shake, and he looked at her. "I need to go check on my family," he said. "You and your companions don't have to join us for supper if you don't want to, but I'm sure Mother will insist on at least making you a share. It'll be easier for you to just agree and eat it than argue."

"I'll take that under advisement," Yllia replied.

Hawke moved towards the barn door, and then paused. "If there is anything else that we can do for you before you depart, let me know."

Yllia nodded, looking down at herself as she did so – at the tattered and soiled remains of her robes, which had not, in any way, held up during the trek from the Wilds to Lothering. "Actually," she said, "do you have any idea where I might find a new set of robes?"

Hawke blinked at her – and then he grinned, noticing her appearance. "I'll see what I can do."

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

A hand passed over the smooth surface of the water, the ripples disrupting the image of the mages that she was been watching. They faded from sight, leaving only the empty scrying pool before her.

"And so it begins," the old woman murmured, her golden eyes gleaming with ethereal light. "The die is cast, the pawns in place. There are no chance meetings, no coincidences – only steps in a grand design."

She rose to her feet and threw open the door to the cottage, stepping out into the Wilds. On either side of her land she could see the lines of darkspawn moving through, decimating and ravaging everything in their path.

And yet they avoided her cottage completely. Even the darkspawn knew better than to challenge her power.

She smiled slowly. There were things to do, plans to make, contingencies to prepare. Time was moving swiftly, and yet time was something she had so much of.

The precipice of change was upon them. Soon, they would have to cling to the side of the cliff and climb – or let go and fall.


	8. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the party prepares to depart Lothering Alistair begins to open up to Yllia, and Hawke must make a decision regarding the safety of his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, Teakwood, for his patience and support. I've made it my goal to actually get him liking characters that he didn't like, bwahaha. He doesn't know what he's in for.

Yllia felt _much_ better as she left the freehold and headed back into the village to look for Alistair and Morrigan, Rhys trotting along happily at her side. Hawke had given her a set of robes that had belonged to his father – the only one of their family who had ever worn authentic robes, as Hawke and Bethany both had to hide their magic lest the templars find them. They were big, of course – she was practically swimming in the shoulders – but a well-placed belt cinched around the waist helped to keep all fabric covering areas that needed to be covered. Morrigan might feel comfortable flashing her skin for all the world to see, but Yllia had grown up in the world of buttoned-to-the-neck collars and floor-length hemlines. There was time enough to explore her comfort zones _later_.

Rhys stuck his nose to the ground, snuffling his way through Lothering in search of their misplaced companions. They got sidelined a couple of times – she hadn't been able to just leave the crying boy looking for his mother alone, and then there was the woman who was running low on health potions for those among the refugees who were sick and injured. It seemed that all around Lothering were people in need of help, and Yllia simply _could not_ let them be.

She finally caught up with Alistair and Morrigan outside of Lothering's tavern, and she assumed they had only just met up themselves because otherwise she was _certain_ it wouldn't have taken her an hour to track them down. Lothering wasn't that big; their voices carried quite a distance.

"Are you planning on helping every lost sheep that enters into this city?" Morrigan was asking Alistair hotly, her arms crossed over her ample chest as she frowned disapprovingly at the Grey Warden in front of her. "Yllia requested that we tend to our supplies and armor, not right every wrong that appears to exist. And you didn't even manage to get us a _discount_ in the process!"

"We're not the ones who _needed_ the discount – that man was robbing those people blind!" Alistair shot back, his tone defensive. He glared at the dark-haired mage in front of him. "If I can help, I am _going_ to help!"

"We came here with a purpose in mind, and that purpose does not include-"

" _Children!_ " Yllia felt like she was scolding a couple of new apprentices in the Tower as she hurried over to put herself between her two companions. She fixed them both with a glare that made Alistair wince and Morrigan look irritated. "Enough! What in the blazes are you two doing, arguing in front of the tavern like this? You've got an audience in case you didn't know!"

"Let them stare," Morrigan said calmly, "our conversation is hardly any of their business."

"What conversation?" Alistair snapped. "The minute I got here you started laying into me about something you weren't even present for!"

"Word travels – if you had ears, you'd hear it easily enough." Morrigan gave him a withering look, and Yllia shifted her body, planting herself firmly in Morrigan's line of sight. It was only after she'd done so that she realized the futility of the effort, and from the raised eyebrow of the other woman, so did she. Morrigan stood almost a foot taller than Yllia, and so did Alistair. They could easily glare over the top of her head.

Alistair made a choking sound from behind her in an effort to keep from laughing, and she spun, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him now. He immediately attempted to look innocent, but she could see the tug of a smile that didn't want to be contained.

Yllia scowled. "Yes, let's just all make fun of the short elf," she grumbled. "It isn't _my_ fault you humans are giants."

"Mmhmm." She could feel Morrigan's smirk.

_Ignore it. Ignore it._ She took a deep breath, and then attempted to redirect the conversation back to the previous topic before they'd all been side-tracked by her height-challenged attempt at mediation. "So _what_ are you two arguing about?"

Alistair's mirth was quickly replaced by indignation. "Our _friend_ here," he said, and he used the term very loosely, "disapproves of my methods of obtaining new armor for us."

"His _methods_ , as he calls them," Morrigan snapped, "are to play mediator for the Chantry and convince a merchant to lower his costs of supplies for the refugees – and yet _we_ must still pay full price for the very same items!" She glared at Alistair. "If you were not going to be able to get us a discount, then you ought to have kept your nose out of it!"

"I wasn't going to just stand by and watch that bastard swindle -"

" _Enough!_ " Rhys' ears perked up, and Morrigan and Alistair both, miraculously, fell silent.

Yllia took a deep breath. "Alistair, did you get replacements for the armor we need?"

"Yes."

"Morrigan, did you replenish our supplies?"

"Of course."

"And do we have enough coin left for us to go inside of this tavern and have a drink?"

A quick clanking of coin in bags and some counting confirmed it.

"Then that's all I give a damn about right now. I've already arranged board and a meal for later, so let's just get inside, _stop arguing_ , and get off of our feet for half an hour without having to worry about darkspawn or bandits breathing down our necks." She looked from one to the other. "Sound good?" She didn't wait for a response, instead striding into the building and expecting them to follow.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

She ignored the drunken leers that were being directed at her from one of the tables on the upper level of Dane's Refuge, keeping herself to the corner that she had been staking out for two hours now. Every time the tavern door opened she lifted her head, gauged the new arrival, and found herself thoroughly disappointed.

There were two things which drew her to this particular point at this particular time. The first had been the arrival of men from Teryn Loghain's army two days prior, seeking any information regarding the Grey Warden traitors who may have survived the Battle of Ostagar. Given Lothering's location as a hub in the trade routes, it wasn't far off the mark that anyone traveling northward from the Wilds would pass through the village.

It was the first the people of Lothering, and the Chantry, had heard of the Grey Wardens' treachery. Some accepted it without question, for why would the legendary Hero of River Dane lie about such things? Others were more cautious and skeptical, seeing as how the declaration came from a man who had turned back his army during open battle. Who was to say which the truth was? The Warden in question, at least, would be easy enough to locate – the soldiers described a woman, an elf, and a mage. An unusual combination, to say the least.

The second item that had led her to the tavern was the defeat of the bandits that had become a permanent fixture directly outside the village. It had taken all of her willpower not to do something about them personally, but to do so would have been to show her hand too soon. She had had to content herself with doing what she could for the refugees within the village itself, although the Chantry's ability to help was fast diminishing in the face of so _many_. When she'd heard that the bandits had been taken care of, she'd simply been momentarily pleased.

Until word filtered through Lothering's gossip chain that it was a female elven mage who had done the defeating.

Coincidence?

Leliana didn't think so.

And so she left the Chantry to stake out the most likely place for any traveler to visit, taking a seat at one of the tables and accepting the only non-alcoholic drink the barkeep had to offer. She knew she stood out in her Chantry robes, but…well, she hadn't taken any _official_ vows, and there was nothing against a lay sister visiting a tavern. As taverns went Dane's Refuge was a bit on the mundane side; the rowdiest patrons were the same soldiers who had spread the news about Ostagar and the Grey Wardens.

A shout went up from near the door and Leliana started, realizing that as she'd become lost in her musings she'd forgotten to keep an eye on the door. Now those same soldiers she had just been contemplating were up on their feet and staring down a trio of travelers that appeared to be led by a…

Female elven mage.

_By Andraste!_

Leliana set down her glass and rose to her feet. The soldiers looked like they were about ready to come to blows with the Warden and her companions – whatever words had been exchanged between the two groups had them both rather incensed, and she could see the barkeep was starting to get nervous. Despite popular opinion, no tavern owner actually _wanted_ a fight to break out in their place of business.

She put her sweetest, most disarming smile into place and hurried over to the group. "Gentlemen," she said, looking at the soldiers first, "surely there is no need for trouble. These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge."

The leader of the soldiers turned towards her and narrowed his eyes, his arm rising in a threatening fist aimed at the elf. "They're more than that!" he growled. "Stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, and you'll get the same as them."

The man standing behind the Warden jerked slightly, and the mage's arm shot out, hand curling around his forearm in silent warning. It appeared, then, that they hadn't yet heard that the Grey Wardens were currently being hunted by Teyrn Loghain's men. Was the man a Warden as well? The rumors had said _two_ of them had survived. The two of them exchanged silent looks, the elf shaking her head sharply with a clear intent for her companion to keep his mouth shut.

"What do you mean by calling the Grey Wardens traitors?" the third member of their group, a woman wearing a rather scandalous outfit drawled.

Before the soldier could respond, Leliana fixed a look of surprise upon her face and looked at her. "Teyrn Loghain claims the Grey Wardens betrayed the king. Haven't you heard?"

"What?" the man exclaimed.

"Alistair, Morrigan," the elf hissed. "This isn't the -"

"Enough talk!" The leader of the soldiers had clearly become fed up with how the encounter was going. "Take the Warden into custody, kill the sister and anyone else that gets in the way!"

That was that only warning they got before the soldiers drew their weapons, coming at them all at once. Leliana had only a second to contemplate whether this was a good thing or not before she was forced to draw her own weapons, twirling the blades in her hands before slashing at the nearest attacker. It was a flurry of blades and magic then, the elven Warden parrying with her staff while the other woman lobbed ice at the men.

It was Leliana, the warrior Alistair, and the mabari with them who provided the real damage, however. Leliana spun and struck with precision, knowing that she would be getting stares and choosing to not worry about such things. In battle there was no time for such questions, and Leliana was simply relieved to find that her skills had not diminished too greatly in her time with the Chantry.

At last most of the men lay on the ground; some dead, some unconscious, and the tavern was now mostly deserted by those who had scrambled out of the door as soon as the commotion began. Only the leader remained conscious, and he held up his hands in surrender as he found himself surrounded. "All right, you've won!" he exclaimed, eyes wide. "We surrender!"

"What a pity," the woman named Morrigan said, affecting a bored tone.

Leliana sheathed her daggers and turned to the elven Warden. "I believe they have learned their lesson, and we can all stop fighting now," she said in as casual a tone as she could manage. Truly these three were not ones to be trifled with, and the Warden looked at her with apprehension in her clear blue eyes.

"If we let them go," the elf said with a shake of her head, "then they'll report to Loghain." She looked at the man for several moments of contemplation, and then crossed her arms over her chest and looked the man directly in the eye. "Take a message to Loghain. Tell him that the Grey Wardens know what _really_ happened at Ostagar. Tell him that he can't run from us forever."

The man's dark eyes flashed with anger. "And if I don't?" he sneered, some of his earlier bravado returning.

The elf gave him a sweet smile, so full of innocence and light that Leliana determined her earlier estimation had been correct; this was not a woman whose bad side she wished to be on. "Then I'll find out," she replied, "and I'll come visit you in your dreams. Did you know that if you get turned into a toad in your dreams, you'll start thinking you _are_ one in real life? And there are _so_ many worse things than toads."

The anger drained from his face, as did most of the color. "Uh…right. Message to Teyrn Loghain. From the Grey Wardens. Got it. I'll just, ah, go deliver that. Right now." He looked at her for permission, and when she nodded and stepped aside, he didn't even spare his fellow soldiers a second glance before he went tearing out of the building as if his pants had been set aflame.

Leliana could not help but fight back a smile as the elf turned to them, looking rather satisfied. "Well," she said, "that's taken care of." Then she turned her attention directly to Leliana herself. "Thank you for helping us."

Immediately Leliana shook her head. "Oh, no," she said, holding up her hand in placation. "Please do not thank me. I was simply doing what anyone would do at the sight of such an incident."

The Warden raised an eyebrow in skepticism. "And do Chantry sisters normally stand around in taverns with daggers sheathed to their backs?"

Leliana couldn't help but give another smile. "I was not born in the Chantry, you know," she replied. "Many of us had more…colorful lives before we joined." That, at least, was true enough. "Oh, but I have not introduced myself, have I? My name is Leliana."

"Yllia Surana." Ah, at last a name to put with the face, and an intriguing one at that. It sounded Dalish, although Leliana knew that the Circles were only supposed to take elven mages from the city alienages, not from the clans. There was a story there; she could sense it, and it made her all the more intrigued.

And if she played her cards right, perhaps she would have the opportunity to learn it.

"They said you were a Grey Warden," Leliana said, looking at her. "I'm surprised you are an elf, but elves must want the Blight defeated as much as humans, no?" She rushed on before Yllia could interrupt her. "I know after what happened you will need all the help you can get. That is why I am coming along."

Yllia stared at her, looking a little…overwhelmed. "It's true that I'll need help, but…"

"That and the Maker wants me to go with you." Leliana smiled as innocently as she possibly could.

"I'm…sorry?" Yllia looked like she was struggling not to look at her companions, and she appeared completely off her guard now.

Perfect.

Leliana brought her hands together in front of her, tapping her fingertips together in a show of nervousness and anxiety. "I…I know this sounds…absolutely insane," she said hurriedly, "but it's true! I had a dream – a vision!"

"More crazy?" Alistair muttered from behind Yllia. "And I thought we were all full up."

Leliana ignored him and pushed ahead, looking at Yllia imploringly. "Look at the people here," she said. "They are lost in their despair. This darkness, this chaos, it will only spread. The Maker doesn't _want_ this. What you do, what you are _meant_ to do, is the Maker's work! Let me help!"

That, at the very least, was true enough and Leliana meant every bit of sincerity that she put into her words. She knew that Lothering was in the path of danger, and she knew, as hard as it was to accept, that the Chantry would not be taking action to ensure that the refugees would survive. Not until the danger was much more obvious, and by then it would be too late. Leliana did not want to give up on the village, but neither did she want to lose this fight before it had even begun.

The Grey Warden appeared to be warring with herself, caught between skepticism and pragmatism. Leliana clenched her hands together tightly, near holding her breath as she waited for a decision to be made.

At last the elven woman looked Leliana directly in the eye. "If you're serious about this then I won't turn down the help. But this will _not_ be easy."

Morrigan gave Yllia a dry look. "Perhaps your skull was cracked more than Mother thought."

But Leliana could not stop the smile from spreading across her face, nor the relief that flooded through her. "Thank you," she said. "I appreciate being given the chance. Have you a place to stay for the night?"

"We've made arrangements with one of the freeholds outside the village," Yllia replied, "although I only made them for three of us."

Leliana quickly shook her head. "Not to worry," she said. "I will need some time to prepare my own supplies. I will meet you in the Chantry in the morning, of that works for you."

Yllia nodded, extending her hand towards Leliana, who seized upon it to cement their agreement. "In the morning, then," the mage replied. Then she stepped back and motioned to her companions to follow her.

"Can you _really_ make someone think they're a toad in their dreams?" Leliana heard Alistair ask Yllia on their way out the door.

"No," came the reply, "but _he_ didn't know that, now did he?"

The door swung shut behind them, and Leliana let out a deep breath. She had much to do before the morning – much to prepare, and much to contemplate.

She hoped she was doing the right thing.

She hoped she knew what the right thing to do was.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

"Would it be inappropriate for me to say that I'm _glad_ we ended up not eating anything at that tavern?" Alistair asked in between hefty bites of food. "Compared to the rations we've been downing for the last week, I think this food deserves a place at the side of the Maker."

Yllia laughed softly. "I'll make sure to pass your compliments on to Leandra before we leave tomorrow."

She and Alistair were sitting up in the loft the Hawke's barn, their bedrolls stretched out on piles of hay that, compared to the hard ground, was far softer than anything they were used to. Down below, Rhys was happily gnawing away at a bone – compliments of Loch, who was now sequestered away inside the house with his family. Hawke had offered them a place at the table, but Yllia had declined for all of them. After all, it was Carver's first night back with his family, and they were already intruding enough by taking up temporary residence in their barn.

Besides, she didn't want to inflict Morrigan on the Hawkes any more than necessary.

The witch had scoffed at the notion of sleeping in a barn, and opted instead to set up a small campsite in the field surrounding the barn. No amount of convincing on Yllia's part could get her to change her mind – Morrigan preferred the outdoors to being under a roof, and the further they got from the Wilds the more she seemed to do so.

It left her and Alistair with a rather comfortable setting for the night, all things considered.

"We need to talk about what we're doing next," Yllia said, setting down her plate and reaching into her pack. "We didn't get into details about it when we left Flemeth's, but we should probably iron out _some_ sort of plan before leaving Lothering."

She withdrew their folded map and shoved aside some of the hay, spreading it out in front of her. The map showed the entirety of Ferelden, and though it wasn't especially detailed, leaving many of the smaller villages off, it showed the Imperial Highway and the larger cities and trading posts. Alistair shifted to sit next to her.

Yllia reached out and pointed to four spots on the map. "So, according to these treaties we've got, we've got four destinations in mind. The treaties will require us to go to Kinloch Hold, Orzammar, and the Dalish respectively. Orzammar is the furthest north, and will _probably_ end up being our last destination."

Alistair nodded, and pointed to the eastern part of the country. "The Dalish usually camp in the Brecilian Forest this time of year, don't they?"

"There should be at least one clan there, yes." Yllia followed the path from Lothering towards the forest with her eyes, then traced the same path to the area marked 'Redcliffe'. "We also need to speak with Arl Eamon if we're going to get his assistance against Loghain…which, from the sound of it, we're going to need more than ever."

"I can't believe he has the nerve to declare us _traitors_ ," Alistair said with a touch of venom.

"Which is why I think making for Redcliffe before going anywhere else should be our first priority," Yllia said, looking at him. "It's equal distance from here to either the arling or the forest, and I don't know about you, but right now I could do with some advice on how to proceed. If we have to watch out for the teyrn's men on top of darkspawn, then I want to be prepared for it."

Alistair looked at the map silently for a stretch of time, his eyes lingering on the arling of Redcliffe. She glanced at him; silence was uncharacteristic of him. She was struck by the seriousness of his expression as his gaze focused on the inked parchment, his hazel eyes devoid of their usual mirth. For a moment it seemed as if he were _elsewhere_ , no longer sitting in the dimly lit loft with her, but caught somewhere in memory, somewhere distant and out of reach to her.

"Alistair?" she asked quietly, touching his arm with slender fingers.

He jumped as if she'd struck him, his eyes widening in surprise as he jerked his arm away from her and stared. Instantly he realized what he'd done, and a flush crept up his neck. He coughed, clearing his throat and pushing his hand through his hair.

"Are you alright?" Yllia tilted her head slightly to the side, regarding him.

"Who, me? I'm fine," he said, far too rushed to be believable. "Just fine. Just got caught up in my thoughts, that's all. And if Morrigan were in here, she'd likely make some kind of crack about me and thinking, but she's not, so why don't we just-"

"Alistair, you're rambling."

Her interjection cut him off, and he blinked, snapping his mouth shut as a sheepish look came over his face. "I…guess I was, wasn't I?"

She nodded. "You really were. Something on your mind?"

He sighed, glancing back to the map briefly. Then another, nervously, in the direction of the barn door – as if he expected to find Morrigan on the other side, ear pressed up and listening to every word. Yllia almost told him not to worry about it, because if Morrigan wanted to eavesdrop, she wouldn't do it in such an obvious fashion and there'd be nothing they could do about it. More likely the other woman could care less what they were doing in the barn while she slept outside.

However, if Alistair was that anxious over whatever he was thinking about, Yllia didn't want to push him to talk about it before he was ready. She made it a point not to pry into the lives of the people around her, because in exchange they usually left her own past well enough alone. "You don't have to…"

"No," Alistair cut her off. He sighed. "No, I think I do. Better for you to find out _now_ than to be blindsided by it when we get to Redcliffe, and if I know Arl Eamon it _will_ come up, whether I want it to or not."

Yllia responded by pushing the map to the side and shifting her position, tucking her legs underneath her as she turned her body to face his with an expectant look on her face.

It was several minutes before he started to speak, struggling with the words, as if he weren't certain whether or not he was getting them right. "You remember how I said that I was raised in Redcliffe, right? By…by the Arl? I think I mentioned it. Did I?"

"You did, at Flemeth's."

"Okay. Good. I think." He took a deep breath, eyes darting around nervously again. "Well, see, it's like this… I'm a bastard."

Yllia raised an eyebrow.

"A real one, not a figurative one," he hastened to continue. "My mother, she was a scullery maid at Redcliffe Castle. She died giving birth to me, and Arl Eamon took me in and let me live there until I was ten, which is when I was given over to the Chantry."

"Okay," Yllia said slowly. "So, your mother wasn't married to your father. I know there are people out there who care about that sort of thing, but it doesn't exactly change who you are." She tilted her head slightly. "Did you think I'd…look down on you for it, or something? Because if so – hello, elf mage."

"No, it's nothing like that!" Alistair said hurriedly, waving his hands in front of him and shaking his head to emphatically illustrate his assurance. "It's not even really that I'm a bastard, it's, well, see, it's my father." He took a steadying breath and squared his shoulders. "King Maric."

Yllia stared at him. "Come again?"

"My father," Alistair repeated, "was King Maric. Cailan is…was…my brother."

Whatever Alistair had been expecting for a reaction, it had certainly _not_ been Yllia suddenly bursting out into laughter, pressing her hand against her stomach and doubling over as her shoulders shook. She struggled to get herself under control, and just when she thought she'd finally gotten the laughter reduced to giggles, she glanced up and saw the wide-eyed, slightly panicked and a little disturbed look on Alistair's face, and it set her off into fresh peals.

"Yllia…?" he asked slowly, looking at her as if she'd gone crazy?

Finally she was able to sit up straight, and wiped the tears from her eyes as she did so. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "It's just… _of course_ you're King Cailan's brother. I thought there was something familiar about you when we met, but I never saw the two of you together so I didn't make the connection. You look alike."

"Oh, Maker, I hope not too much," Alistair said fervently. "I'll never be able to grow my hair out if that's the case."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Alistair suddenly looked subdued, and a little guilty – he was making fun of the king, and the king was… gone.

Yllia reached out and placed her hand on his wrist, curling her fingers around it gently. "It's all right to laugh, Alistair," she said softly. "It's all right to smile. You and I both know we don't mean anyone harm."

Alistair let out a heavy sigh. "It's just that… he had a good heart. Good intentions. He didn't deserve this."

"Did you know each other?" Yllia asked.

"We met, once," Alistair replied. "It wasn't much of a conversation. He was five years older than me, and apparently I was about as interesting to him as a rack of swords. Less so, actually, because the first words out of his mouth were, "Ooo, swords!" and he bee lined for them." He shrugged. "It didn't really bother me. My whole life I'd been taught to stay out of the way and not draw attention to myself. Cailan was to be the next king, and there was no room for _me_ in that scenario."

"Did that ever bother you?"

He was quiet for a moment, and then lifted one shoulder in a possible shrug. "I've got no interest in the throne," he said, "not now, and definitely not when I was a child. I think…I think it bothered me more that I knew who my father was, but I wasn't allowed to even look at him the same way other boys could look at their fathers."

Yllia realized then that her hand was still resting on his wrist, and drew it back. "How often did you get to see him?"

"Not very." Alistair shook his head. "The Queen was Arl Eamon's sister, although she died before I was born. King Maric came to Redcliffe on occasion, but usually it was just Cailan, or Arl Eamon would go to Denerim. I, of course, did not get to go." He frowned slightly. "I think the last time I saw my father in the flesh was when I was…nine? From a distance, of course. I always had to keep to myself, lest some unsuspecting noble or servant see us together and make a connection."

There was a touch of sadness in Alistair's words, and Yllia had to resist the urge to give her fellow Warden a hug – it was her first instinct at the look on his face. She managed to restrain herself; she'd already broken that personal boundary once at Flemeth's, but that had been an extenuating circumstance and she wasn't going to let herself overstep again. She didn't want to risk alienating him.

Finally he sighed and met her eyes. "I would have told you, but it never really meant anything to me. I've never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew – they either resented me for it or they coddled me. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know as long as possible, but I wasn't sure if we'd get another chance to talk like this before reaching Redcliffe. I'm sorry."

"Alistair, it's _all right_ ," Yllia insisted. She didn't want him apologizing for something that was so obviously difficult for him to talk about. "Don't worry about it, okay?" When he didn't immediately relax, she smiled, and slipped a teasing lilt into her tone. "You look so serious. There isn't anything else you're hiding, is there?"

Her tone had the desired effect – she could see the glimmer of wit reappear in his eyes, and the smile as he replied lightly, "Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. That's it. Just the prince thing."

Her smile grew. It wasn't _quite_ as lighthearted as it might have been under different circumstances, but it was closer to the Alistair she was used to. She'd take what she could get. "We should probably get some sleep," she said, noting that the sun had long since gone down and the barn was completely dark save for the small flame in the lantern Hawke had provided them. "We'll be meeting up with Leliana tomorrow and heading out early."

Alistair nodded, and the next moments were busy with the two of them situating their bedrolls and settling in. Yllia waited until Alistair wasn't in danger of falling out of the loft if the light went out, and then moved her fingers, extinguishing the flame.

"Yllia?"

His voice was quiet in the darkness, coming from somewhere to her left. She turned slightly towards it. "Yes?"

"I'd appreciate it if you could just pretend to think of me like I'm some…nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens."

Yllia couldn't resist, and she rolled back onto her side, her back to him. In the darkness, he couldn't see her smile. "As you command…my prince."

"…Oh, lovely. I'm going to regret this. Somehow, I just know it."

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

They were up at dawn the next morning, packing up their bedrolls and tidying up the loft. Of Alistair's revelation the night before he and Yllia mentioned nothing – it went unspoken between them that Alistair did not want Morrigan, though Yllia doubted it would be easy to conceal it from her for very long, particularly if it became an issue at Redcliffe. Though they'd ended the night on a light note, Yllia knew Alistair hadn't been joking when he'd asked her to think of him as nothing more than just another Grey Warden, and she was happy enough to do so. What did it matter to her that Alistair was the bastard son of the former King? It wasn't as if he were in line for the throne itself – and weren't Grey Wardens supposed to stay out of politics, anyway?

Royal father or not, Alistair was still Alistair. That was what mattered most, wasn't it?

The Hawke house was quiet in the early morning, and Yllia felt a twinge of guilt for not giving a proper good-bye to their hosts. But Redcliffe was a good distance away, and they couldn't afford to waste time. She sent a silent prayer to the Maker to watch over Garrett Hawke and his family, and then nodded to Alistair and Morrigan that it was time to go.

And, of course, they hit an instant detour. And an instant conflict in opinion.

"Alistair, we can't just _leave_ him in there," Yllia hissed as they approached the Chantry doors. "You and I both know Lothering is _right_ in the horde's path. He stays in that cage, he'll _die_."

"And I'm sure the Revered Mother wouldn't have put him in there without good reason," Alistair protested. "Cages like that are reserved for criminals, Yllia, we can't just release whoever we see fit."

"Criminal or no criminal, it's not _right_ to just leave someone locked up in the fact of near-certain death," Yllia countered. "And, last I checked, the Chantry doesn't have the right to serve as judge, jury, _and_ executioner!"

Her voice echoed on the last word and she froze, realizing that she'd thrown open the doors to the very same Chantry she'd just been denouncing right as she'd made her proclamation. Refugees, sisters, and all stopped and stared at her. She'd never seen so many gaping mouths at once.

"…Yllia?"

Familiar voice. Yllia saw Leliana standing near the door, wearing the same surprised expression that most of the others shared – although the corners of her lips were twitching as she fought back a smile. The red-haired woman moved to join them. "That was…quite an entrance," she said diplomatically.

Yllia sighed, glancing warily around the Chantry. Most of the refugees had lost interest, as had about half of the sisters and brothers – but the few that were in the building were eyeing her staff. She willed herself not to tense. She was a Grey Warden, officially conscripted, Joined, and everything. There wasn't anything they could do about that.

She shoved them out of her mind. "It wasn't on purpose," she assured Leliana. "We were having a…disagreement." She glanced at Alistair, and when he scowled slightly she shot one of her own right back at him. She turned back to Leliana. "I need to see the Revered Mother before we go."

Leliana looked surprised, but she didn't question Yllia's reasons. "I am sure that can be arranged," she said. And somehow it was – within minutes Leliana was leading them to the back of the sanctuary. The Revered Mother was surprised to see them, even more so to discover that Yllia and Alistair were the Grey Wardens that Loghain's men had been searching for the day before. Yllia did her best to be as polite as possible, and with Leliana's assistance, managed to get the Revered Mother to turn responsibility over the Chantry's prisoner to the Grey Wardens.

And thus they added not just one dagger-wielding Chantry sister to their group, but also a stoic, near-silent and maybe-murderous Qunari warrior. Yllia wasn't going to complain. Leliana (despite her ramblings of Maker-driven visions) clearly had skills that none of them possessed, and Sten's brute strength was likely to come in very handy should they find themselves matched up with another ogre. But when Morrigan murmured beside her, "What strange company you keep," the elven mage was inclined to agree with her.

And so it was that their rag-tag group now numbering six proceeded out of Lothering by mid-day, restocked and supplied, and with a bit more coin in their purses due to the inevitable delays of good deeds that Yllia, Alistair, and Leliana simply could not pass up on before leaving. And so it was, naturally, that the very first thing they encountered was a group of darkspawn accosting two dwarves, and Leliana and Sten had a chance to prove their usefulness to Yllia in actual combat.

It was nice to see that her instincts were still working.

The dwarves, introduced as the merchant Bodahn and his son Sandal, were more than grateful for the aid, and offered them a chance to peruse his wares. While Leliana and Alistair did so, Yllia looked around.

Her gaze lit upon a tree several feet away – and the toe of a boot that she could just make out at the foot of it.

Yllia glanced at her companions and caught Morrigan's eye, lifting a finger to indicate that she would be a minute. The witch shrugged as if it didn't matter to her, and Yllia headed for the tree.

"I suppose I ought to thank you for the cures, but I thought you said you weren't good with Creation magic," she said, stepping around to the far side.

Hawke's emerald-green eyes looked back at her. "I said my talents were mostly Primal and that it was my sister who was the healer – I never said I couldn't manage any on my own. I would have helped more, but…"

She waved it off. "If anyone had seen you, it would have caused you trouble." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm guessing you didn't come here just to chat, though?"

He gave her a good-natured grin. "Actually," he said, "I just wanted to make sure you got out of here in one piece. I wasn't sure I'd catch you, though."

"We got a little delayed," she admitted. She pressed her lips together, thinking of the darkspawn they'd just dispatched. "I'm thinking it was a good thing. You saw, I assume? Of course you did; you were healing us."

"I saw." The grin vanished. "Carver and I are going to try to convince Mother and Bethany that we need to leave. There are arrangements to make, supplies to get… but we can't stay here."

"Where will you go?" Yllia asked.

He shook his head. "Haven't worked that bit out yet. North to Amaranthine maybe, or east to Gwaren. We've got relatives across the sea over in the Free Marches. I don't want to leave Ferelden, but…" He shrugged as if to say, what could you do?

"Protecting your family comes first," Yllia said firmly. She glanced around the tree and noticed that Alistair and Leliana appeared to be done, and Alistair was looking around for her with a frown. "It looks like my friends are waiting for me, so…" She hesitated. Simply walking away didn't feel right, nor did a casual 'good luck'. In the brief time that she'd been in Lothering, Garrett Hawke had become something other than a nameless, faceless stranger.

When the idea came to her it seemed so perfect that she wondered how she hadn't thought of it before. She reached into her pack and withdrew a silver amulet that she'd had tucked away safe ever since leaving the Circle. "Here," she said, and before he could question or protest she went up on her toes to slide it around his neck. "Take this."

Puzzled, he took the pendant and looked down at it. "What is…?"

"A protective amulet," Yllia explained. "It will help heal you during battles and replenish your mana. A friend of mine in the Circle gave it to me – he was studying to be a healer, so I assure you, it works."

Hawke almost instantly started to shake his head. "I can't take this," he said, moving to take it off. "It was a gift."

She caught his wrist and stopped him. "I can only wear one amulet at a time, and right now I think you'll find it more useful than I will. Please. Just…take it."

They looked at each other, and finally Hawke gave a nod. "All right," he said, letting the amulet fall back into place. "I… thanks."

Yllia gave him a smile, the edges tinged with sadness. "Good luck, Garrett Hawke," she said. Then she stepped back and went around the tree, returning to her companions.

He watched her go, watched her rejoin her group and set off down along the old Imperial Highway, vanishing from sight within minutes. The amulet felt cool in his hand, and his thumb brushed against an indentation on the back of it. Curious, he turned it over, raising an eyebrow when he saw the feline-shaped seal stamped into the metal. _Odd_ , he thought. _Well, I suppose nothing says mages can't be fond of cats._

He slipped the amulet under his tunic and headed back for the farm. He could feel the tension in the air, that sense of foreboding that threatened to crush any that failed to get out of its way. He quickened his pace, intent on getting back to his family.

Time was no longer a luxury they could afford.


	9. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While her pawns are maneuvered, the queen waits and watches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, Teakwood, and to Faermage-KH Junkie for catching typos in the last chapter that should not have been there.

_Denerim_

It was never supposed to be this way.

Alone in the grand study of the Royal Palace, seated at a desk that had been made for a king, these were the words that cycled their way through the mind of Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren and now Regent of Ferelden. A title that left a bitter taste in his mouth, for it was one that he had been forced to claim for himself. A title born not out of desire, as so many of the nobles already clamored, but out of necessity.

He could blame _no one_ for their suspicions regarding his rise to power. Had he been in their position, on the outside looking in, he would have done the same. The timing was simply too _good_. First, the fall of Highever Castle and the death of Bryce Cousland, leaving Loghain as the only Teyrn remaining in Ferelden unless Bryce's eldest proved alive – unlikely, as Fergus had last been seen leading a scouting mission into the Korcari Wilds. Without Teyrn Cousland to maintain the balance, Loghain was now literally the most powerful man in the country, second only to King and Queen.

Then, not two weeks after, the Battle of Ostagar. That fated battle, his inability to convince the king to fall back, to pull back from the Wilds until they could amass a stronger force. More than half the forces of the banns and arls had yet to arrive, and their reports regarding the darkspawn had shown increasing numbers with each day. For a time it had seemed that perhaps, just perhaps, he was getting through to the young king.

And then Duncan had arrived, bringing with him his latest recruit, and any of Loghain's influence had been shattered. Cailan had seen the Warden-Commander's arrival like a sign from the Maker, and no force in Thedas would have been enough to draw him back from the field now. Cailan wanted his glory; Cailan wanted his legends. Cailan wanted to carve a place for himself in the history books, next to his father, his grandmother, and Loghain himself.

It had never occurred to the boy that legends only became legends when they were not seeking such.

And in the end, it had been glory and legends that had been the death of Cailan.

Loghain's shoulders felt impossibly heavy, and he reached across the desk to seize the half-filled glass, bringing it to his lips and downing the remaining contents in one gulp. He wasn't a heavy drinker under normal standards – he disliked the loss of control – but in the past weeks he found that the weight only seemed to lift when the wine slid its way down his throat and settled into his stomach.

Even then, however, his willpower overrode all other instincts, and he only permitted himself the periodic indulgence. He had far too much to do to afford to lose control of his senses know; he'd seen far too many good men destroyed by such a loss. He would _not_ be one of them, no matter how strong the temptation was. He was not some green soldier facing the aftermath of his first battle.

He'd already failed Maric once; he refused to do it _twice_.

A sharp knock on the closed door roused Loghain from his thoughts, and he rose to his feet. "Enter," he said briskly.

A guard he had not seen before stepped into the room and executed a sharp bow, holding a rolled scroll of parchment in her hand. "Your Grace," she said respectfully, "a report has just arrived from the men stationed in Lothering."

"Lothering?" Loghain repeated with a frown. He extended his arm, taking the parchment from the soldier and unraveling it to read the contents.

His back stiffened, and he looked at the soldier. "This has been validated?"

"A report from a templar by the name of Ser Bryant indicates that the Grey Warden had contact with the Revered Mother before departing Lothering, Your Grace," the soldier replied. "Neither can be confirmed with certainty, but both accounts match."

Loghain's grip tightened on the scroll, crinkling the parchment and darkening his expression. "Thank you," he said crisply. "Dismissed."

He turned his back to the soldier before she departed, his eyes going back to the scroll in front of him. Dimly the click of the door registered; he paid it no notice.

So the Grey Wardens _had_ survived Ostagar. Howe had thought him overly cautious in his assumption that not all of the Wardens had perished on the battlefield, but Loghain knew all too well the resilience of their Order. And he knew that those two who had not been with Cailan and Duncan had been alive at least up until he'd sounded his retreat; he'd seen the beacon light up with his own eyes.

His jaw clenched. So the Wardens knew what had happened, did they? No doubt they were heading north to Denerim, intending to spread their own interpretation of what had taken place. And with the growing dissent among the nobility, there was a good chance they'd find _someone_ willing to listen to their words. The only blessing was that they were unlikely to find any aid in Redcliffe; the last report out of the village had been a confirmation that Eamon had indeed taken ill and lay on the edge of his death. Without Eamon the bannorn were unlikely to unite and rise against him, though if Eamon were somehow able to recover that could change in a heartbeat. Fortuitous, then, that Loghain had taken the necessary steps to sway the odds to his favor.

His gut twisted. The day he'd have to resort to such tactics against Rowan's own brother…

"Unsettling, isn't it?"

Loghain whirled around, his eyes wide with shock as he realized that, despite the closing of the door, the soldier who had delivered the message had not left the room. She stood there now, looking at him with a peculiar mixture of contempt, amusement, and condescension. At the sight of his surprise, a slow smile curled upon her face.

"What are you doing in here?" Loghain demanded, anger welling up from within. "Who are you?"

"Always with the same questions – can no one _ever_ think for themselves?" The soldier shook her head. "You will understand in time. Or perhaps you won't. Whether you do or not remains entirely up to you."

Something about the riddling speech tickled the back of Loghain's mind, and he forced himself to quell his anger before it could boil over, having the sense that losing his temper would not be the wisest course of action. "I want an answer," Loghain said, voice hard. " _Now_."

"As sharp-edged as ever, I see. Perhaps less has changed in these past years than I anticipated." The women looked at him steadily.

Her eyes were pure gold, and Loghain grew still.

It had been over thirty years since he had last seen those eyes, but there was no mistaking them. He hadn't trusted them then; he did not trust them now.

"Impossible," he hissed. "You can't be…"

She threw back her head and laughed, the sound echoing throughout the enclosed space. "Oh, but I am indeed. I suppose it would be easier to believe if I looked like myself. But when does anyone look like their _true_ selves, I wonder? Is who we are how we see ourselves, or is it how others perceive us? Appearance is simply another mask to slip behind, and masks can always be removed."

"Have you nothing better to do with your time than spout riddles, witch?" Loghain snapped, his anger nearing its breaking point.

The Witch of the Wilds tsk'd at him, crossing her arms over her chest and somehow managing to look down at him even though he was a good foot taller than her current form. The fact that she had been able to twist her shape into another's unsettled the Teyrn, but he had long since decided to _never_ underestimate the extent of Flemeth's abilities.

"I spout riddles specifically _because_ of Time," Flemeth replied shrewdly. Her eyes slid over his armor-clad form critically. "There is never just one path. There is only the continuation of a straight line until one reaches another crossroads. Another crossroad has passed for you, I know; I wonder how long it will take you to reach the next."

"Another one of your _prophecies?_ " Loghain scoffed. "I have no time for idle flights of fancy, witch. Be thankful I do not summon the templars."

His statement seemed to humor Flemeth, no doubt because she knew the threat was as empty as he did. Summoning the templars against the Witch of the Wilds, if she actually still remained when they arrived, would simply result in getting a lot of men killed. Those who knew of Flemeth's existence generally left her alone – those that _lived_ , at least. Those foolish enough to take her on…

Well, they were no longer among the living, were they?

Flemeth looked at him squarely, her golden eyes seeming to glow. _Candlelight reflection_ , Loghain hurried to assure himself. It fell flat, but as unnerving as he found those eyes to be he refused to look away from her gaze.

"I give you a prophecy and a warning, Loghain Mac Tir," she replied. "A choice to be made, but not your own. Harbinger or Savior? Your life is held in the hands of another; will it be mercy you face, or vengeance?" She smiled slowly, a secretive smile that sent a chill racing down his spine. "I wonder…"

" _Enough!_ " Loghain slammed his hands down upon the desk, voice echoing in the room. "I'll not listen to your taunts, witch!"

She smiled; somehow that only made Loghain angrier. "I have said what I came to say, Ser Regent." The touch of mockery at the title did not go unnoticed. "And as you command, I shall now take my leave." Flemeth stepped back, and paused.

"Beware of snakes in your midst. You never know where or when they will strike you down."

Then there was a flash of brilliant white light, so bright that Loghain was forced to turn his head sharply and bring his hand to cover his eyes. When it faded, he lowered his arm and straightened up, staring at the spot where Flemeth had been standing just moments before. There was nothing but empty floor space now, not a single clue as to where she had gone.

Frustrated and feeling the first vestiges of a headache coming on, Loghain sank back down into his chair and pressed his hand to his temple.

His eyes landed on the scrolled message again, the parchment having rolled itself backwards so that the words stared mockingly up at him. He clenched his jaw. He didn't have time to deal with the ramblings of an old woman, mage or no. There were other, more pressing issues that he had to handle first.

He reached to pour himself another glass of wine and ignored the trembling of his hand.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

_Nevarra City_

He moved as silent as the night, striding through the darkened streets of Nevarra's capital, not even the hooded cloak he wore making a sound as it flowed with his movements. It had been three weeks since he'd come to this place, and until now he'd been left relatively alone.

He fully expected this brief respite to not last much longer. His pursuers were relentless – and no matter how many he killed, it always failed to dissuade the ones who came next. It was amazingly sad, really, how so many people appeared to value coin over their very lives.

Lives that they were free to do with as they saw fit. Lives that they spent subjugating those they considered inferior, without a care for what they _ruined_.

Beneath the folds of his cloak he clenched his hand into a fist, the metal-tipped claw of his gauntlet digging into his palm.

He felt no remorse for what he was about to do. The men who had come for him sought to remove his freedom, and he would face whatever obstacle he must in order to keep it.

They were behind him, now. Two, perhaps three. He felt a rush of contempt. These scum thought that three would be enough to handle him? The last group had boasted three times that, and he'd felled them all within moments. There were many uncertainties in his life, but his confidence in his abilities was not one of them. Three bounty hunters were _nothing_ compared to what he had endured under the hand of Danarius.

Abruptly he turned and ducked into an alley, vanishing from sight.

Footsteps pounded cobblestoned streets as his three pursuers broke from their concealment to rush the alley. They knew that if their quarry managed to duck them they'd have a devil of a time relocating him – for someone who stood out as much as he did, it was astounding how he managed to constantly give the bounty hunters who plagued him the slip. For some, it was only the reward promised for his return that kept them in the game.

For others it was the glory – the elf had garnered a reputation, and whoever it was who managed to bring him in would have his own made.

The complication was, of course, _bringing_ him in.

The alley was empty.

"Where is he?" one of the men asked in a hushed whisper, peering into the shadowed darkness. There was just enough light that he could see the end of this particular passage – it ended in a dead end rather than pass straight through. Of the elf there was no trace.

"Shut up!" the man to his right. "Before you give us away!"

To his left there was a sudden grunt, the heavy thud of a body hitting ground following a second later. He jerked to the side, eyes sweeping in the murky darkness in search of his companion. He saw the dark shape crumpled and unmoving against a nearby wall. No blood. No sign of fight.

"Rolf," he hissed to the third on his right, "on your guard. Ezras is down."

There was no response, and he turned. "Rolf…!"

No one stood next to him.

The rogue tensed, raising his daggers and turning in a slow circle as he tried to gauge his surroundings, tried to discern the location of his opponent. He fought to maintain his calm, knowing that the instant he lost it would be the end of him.

He didn't sense the presence coming up behind him as he completed his turn. It was suddenly just _there_. He jerked, whirling around and flashing his daggers at the elf, the blades narrowing missing the form-fitting chestpiece that he wore. For the briefest moment the gesture left the rogue's arms extended to the side, leaving his own chest fully exposed.

He didn't feel the impact of the hand connecting with his chest. He didn't realize that the hand had passed through the leather armor until he felt a searing pain in his skin, a burning sensation that traveled through every nerve ending within his body. His eyes bulged as he struggled to scream, unable to draw in even enough air for that simple act.

The hunter stared into the cold fury of the face before him and felt a vice-like grip close around his heart, his chest constricting in pain, choking sounds ripping from his throat as blood seeped out from between his lips. His heart fluttered weakly, desperate to rid itself of the tightening hold around it, and the hunter thought dimly that anyone who attempted to tame and subdue this monster had to be a madman.

The hand clenched tight around his heart.

Withdrawing his arm, the elf allowed the hunter's lifeless body to drop to the ground, looking down at him with a lip curled in disgust. His arm was spotless, not a trace of blood on it, and none of the men bore an injury that spoke of how they died.

And yet Danarius would hear of it; Danarius would know. Nevarra City was no longer safe.

"Damn them all to hell," he said harshly, giving the bodies one more glare before moving towards the entrance to the alley.

"No matter how many of them you kill, they'll just keep coming for you."

He froze, staring incredulously at the young girl perched on a milk crate directly opposite the alleyway. Her legs were too short to touch the ground, and she swung them idly, a stuffed bear clasped tightly in her arms. Her dark hair was pulled up into pigtails, and she wore a spotless, frilled white dress commonly found on the children of nobility. Utterly nonthreatening – if not for the fact that it was long past the midnight hour, and no noble child would be sitting there so calmly after witnessing the deaths of three men.

The little girl smiled at him as he stared at her. "Oh, yes," she said in a tone that sounded far too mature for the high-pitched voice that came out of her mouth. "You'll run and run and run, but you'll never outrun them. They will always be one, two, three steps behind you. He doesn't care about costs. He'll keep throwing them at you, fresh body after fresh body, until you're worn and weary and unable to resist. And that's when he'll come himself, when you're at your most vulnerable."

"I do not know what you're talking about." The elf was guarded. Cautious. Each one of his instincts was flaring up within him, but he could not reconcile the sense of danger with the delicate, doll-like child before him.

"Don't you? Are you a fool, then, like all the rest?" She tilted her head up, black curls falling away from her face to reveal brilliant, golden eyes. "No, not a fool. Damaged, broken, scarred inside. Broken things cannot repair themselves; they need someone to bind them together. Make them whole, as it were."

She fixed those chilling eyes on his own, and he found himself frozen, unable to look away. "Your chains are heavy, little wolf. Your only chance of unlocking them is to find the key."

He started at the nickname, bristling and tensing at her words. "I am _free_ ," he growled. "My chains no longer bind me."

The girl smiled a smile too mature, to _knowing_. "Ah, but are you truly? You live each day in fear, always looking over your shoulder, always defending from pursuit. You move from place to place, never settling. Never at peace. The Free Marches, by the way."

"What?" He clenched his fists, muscles in his arm tightening as though preparing to strike, and yet still he did not move.

She slipped off of the milk crate, bounding lightly when her feet touched the ground. "You seek to leave Nevarra. It is a good idea. But as you are likewise attempting to put as much distance between yourself and the Imperium as you can, you are limited in your destinations. The Free Marches, perhaps. Or Ferelden. I would not recommend Ferelden, little wolf. Not now. Perhaps not ever, but that is not for me to decide. And so I suggest the Free Marches."

"And why should I take any suggestion of yours seriously?" he growled. For the briefest moment the markings scrawled over his skin shone with ethereal light, the burn of lyrium sparking within him.

She gave him a look so severe it halted him before the tattoos had a chance to reach their full, deadly luminescence. "You need not take anything I say seriously," she said gravely, "but I have no desire to see you dead. Not yet. My patience is not eternal.

"I offer you a choice, little wolf. Take what you will of it. One will only enslave you further; the other will free you from your bonds."

"And I don't suppose you'll tell me which is which?" came the acerbic reply.

"It wouldn't be much of a choice if I did, now would it?" The girl tucked her hands behind her back, for a moment looking more in line with her supposed age, but he was willing to bet that that 'age' was no more the truth than he was a magister. She gave him an innocent smile that chilled him thoroughly. "Best make your mind up soon, lest you find yourself with neither.

"And now I must be on my way – so many appointments to make and too much time to make them in." She laughed; not a child's laugh, but that of a much older woman, and the lyrium markings were flaring up again in alarm. The girl raised her arms above her head and brought them together with flourish, disappearing in a brilliant flash of light that left the elf staggering back, his entire body momentarily blue from the shockwave of powerful magic that had just been expended around him.

He slowly shook his head to clear it. He didn't bother looking around - he'd seen enough magic in his lifetime to know when a spell was being cast. The girl was gone, and he was alone.

Alone with only his thoughts. Only his fears.

It was several hours later when, as the first dawn's light broke through the clouds, when the elf was seen departing the city with a merchant's caravan. Heading east.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

_Kinloch Hold_

It was impossible to know what time it was. Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months – they all bled seamlessly into each other in the darkness, without even a window to give a hint as to the sun's position in the sky. Only a single candle, replaced when the wick became low, offered any amount of light in the enclosed room.

Room – a laugh. Four walls and a sealed door, enchantments woven into the metal to prevent the door from opening with anything but a key. This was no room; it was a cell. Just as Kinloch Hold was no safe haven for mages; it was a prison. A glorified prison, but a prison nonetheless. So long as the mages remained in line, did as the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander instructed, and played the part of the good little mouse, then most of them could live their lives out in the Circle with little concern.

It was a system that worked. Until it didn't.

The figure in the cell, sitting on a single low cot in the corner with his knees drawn up to his chest, was a perfect example of what happened when the Chantry's system failed to adequately control their mages.

It was not his first time being forced into this solitary, contained space, but he suspected that it would be his last. One year. One year they had sentenced him to, longer than any other term he'd served yet. The first time had only been three days. Second, a week. Each one longer and longer – one month, three, six, until now.

He wasn't an idiot; he was one of the youngest mages in the Circle to pass his Harrowing, and he'd done it with flying colors. He'd been training in the healing arts for years – a mage couldn't master _that_ and not have some brains in their head, not and be effective at what they did. He'd heard the whispers among the apprentices when he'd first been Harrowed; some called him a prodigy for advancing so fast, others mutters less than savory things that his reputation didn't help against. _He_ suspected, of course, that the only reason the Knight-Commander and the First-Enchanter had agreed to Harrow him so young had been in hopes that if he was a full-fledged mage and granted more freedom _within_ the Tower, he'd be less likely to want freedom _without_ it.

One month after his Harrowing, he'd made his fourth escape attempt.

That was when they'd started stepping up his punishments, increasing his time in solitary. Trying to break him. Each time they failed, and he only became more determined to grasp the freedom that he'd tasted. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life locked away in a tower, punished for something someone had done over a _thousand_ years ago.

He didn't know how far into his current sentence he was. He might have months to go; he might have days. He couldn't keep track of hours, only rotations. The templar guard assigned to solitary rotated every six hours. Impossible to know which guard would be there next. He'd tracked the timing for the first month, but even that had grown tiresome after awhile. It didn't matter how long it was. All the rotations signified was the moment when his heart would leap into his throat and his body would tense. Sometimes he'd relax upon seeing who it was.

Other times, he'd close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else.

The main door to the dungeon opened, a heavy, creaking sound that echoed in the otherwise empty confinement area. He heard the heavy footfalls of templar armor, coming closer and closer to his cell. He took a deep breath, willing his heart rate to stabilize, his breathing to remain even.

The footsteps stopped outside the door – but it did not open.

Slowly the tension drained out of his muscles and he unfolded himself, his eyes remaining on the closed door. When it still didn't open, he swung his legs around over the side of the bed and gripped the edge of the mattress, careful not to make a sound as he pushed himself to his feet.

"You may be able to get a spell off the moment this door opens," came an unfamiliar voice from outside the cell, "but I guarantee you that it will be ineffective."

The mage stilled. He knew the voices of every templar who took guard duty in solitary, and this voice was unknown to him. And the matter-of-fact way in which she pinpointed his intention…

"You need not speak. I'm perfectly capable of speaking for the both of us. Some say _too_ capable."

"Who are you?" he asked in a low voice. She shouldn't have been able to hear him through the metal of the door.

She responded as if he were standing beside her.

"I am many things, and yet none of them. I _know_ many things, and yet I know nothing. I know _you_. A bird trapped within a gilded cage, unable to spread your wings lest they be clipped. You flee and fly, and they drag you back and throw the latch."

He balled his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. She was speaking the words that he himself had thought so many times; thought and shared with no one.

"You keep all at a distance, eluding attachments, avoiding connections, never knowing when your next opportunity for flight will arise. But so long as they have your leash, you will never escape, and you know this. Every time you leave, you _know_ that you will be back.

"Their patience is stretched thin; they do not like dissention. You have pushed your limits. This time is your last, young mage. You will be either free or eternally trapped within your own mind. You stand at a crossroads, paths laid out before you, and yet you remain unable to choose, unable to commit."

He wrapped his arms around himself, fingers clutching at the fabric of his sleeves, shivering at the uninhibited way that the voice dredged up the thoughts that lay deep within his mind. He didn't want them to be true. He _wanted_ freedom; he craved it, yearned for it, desired it more than anything. To be able to wake up with the sun on his face was his greatest longing.

"So then why do you keep letting them bring you back?"

What choice did he _have?_ The Chantry possessed his phylactery. So long as they had that small vial of blood, they would be able to follow his every movement. And he had about as much chance of getting his hands on that as he had of becoming the Empress of Orlais. The only way to stay free was to constantly move, and yet he could never move fast or far enough because they caught up to him. He didn't _let_ them bring him back, but to struggle further when they found him was _suicide_.

"And will you sit idly by when they choose to finally make you Tranquil?"

"Stop it!" he cried, his voice breaking the silence of his cell. "Who _are_ you? What do you _want_?" With rising panic he wondered if this was the start of it, the beginning of insanity. Was he finally, at last, breaking under the pressure of confinement, the pain of abuse? Had the endless days and nights taken their toll on his psyche?

"The true question is not what _I_ want, mage, but rather what _you_ want. You will have one more opportunity. One more chance. Time it well. I would give a word to the wise, but then, there are none of those here. Instead I give a warning. Seize your moment, mageling, but be careful to not be swept away lest you find yourself drowning."

He heard the shifting of feet, the sound of steps beginning to move away from the door, and he was moving before he fully realized it, palms pressing against the cold metal. "Wait!" he cried. "Don't…you can't just leave me in here! Not after that!"

His answer was a bout of laughter, a loud cackle that cut him off before he could continue his pleas. "You'll get your chance soon enough, mageling," the voice said with another chuckle. "But there is one thing you must do before then."

"What?" he asked, resting his forehead against the metal. He could feel the nullification magic moving through the door; they made his skin hum. "What is it? I'll do _anything_."

The reply was an almost inaudible whisper.

"Survive."

Several floors above, the screaming began.


	10. Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party at last reaches Redcliffe, and finds that Fate has once again dealt them a difficult hand.

"Have you ever wondered what it's like out there?"

The casual question made Yllia look up from the large tome she had her nose buried into, looking at the blonde apprentice lounging next to her with curiosity. "Out there?" she echoed. "You mean outside of the Tower?"

He nodded, leaning back in his chair so that he could prop his feet up on the table. "Right," he said. "Outside the Tower, beyond Lake Calenhad. We've seen the maps – Thedas is _huge_ , and yet most of us here never get the chance to see it." He sounded wistful. "I remember it from before I was brought here. What about you?"

She nibbled her lower lip delicately. "I…don't know," she haltingly replied. "I was young when I came here, I don't really…"

"Oh, right – you were only four, weren't you?" He gave her a sympathetic look. "Sometimes I forget that you've been here longer than I have, even though you're younger than me."

The look in his eyes brought a light blush to her cheeks, and she quickly averted her gaze, looking back at the words.

"What about you, Jowan?" The blonde turned to the dark-haired boy sitting across from him. "Do _you_ remember life outside the Circle?"

Jowan responded with a slight shudder. The two boys were the same age, but he didn't have nearly the confidence that their cheerful friend exuded. "N-nothing I _want_ to remember," Jowan stammered. Yllia felt a rush of sympathy for him, wondering if Jowan would ever be free of the stutter that cropped up whenever he was nervous. "I c-couldn't wait to come to the C-circle."

The other apprentice huffed in distaste. "Well, I, for one, can't wait to _leave_ ," he grumbled. "Just you wait and see. I'm going to pass my Harrowing, and then I'm going to find a way out of here."

Yllia looked up from her book and stared at him. "Like you did the last time?" she asked. "They just brought you back, didn't they?"

"That doesn't mean I have to stop _trying_ ," the blonde said with a shake of his head. He swung his legs down and turned towards him, giving her a charming smile that made her heart flutter. "You should come with me."

"Wh-what?" Her eyes widened, and then she shook her head emphatically, nearly smacking herself with her hair. "No – I couldn't. I'm nowhere near ready for my Harrowing, and it's _dangerous_ out there for mages, everyone knows that!"

"That's what they _want_ you to think," her friend said, a touch of venom in his words. "But I lived out there as a mage for years before they caught me. The only reason it's dangerous for mages is because they've _made_ it dangerous. They've got the rest of the world so convinced that _we're_ the enemy that people cower in fear of us even when we haven't done anything – and yet they're quick and eager for us to do their bidding when they have need of magic. We're like their…their trained _pets_."

He put his hand on her arm and looked at her imploringly. "Come with me, Yllia. You don't belong here anymore than I do."

" _No!_ " Jowan jumped to his feet suddenly, slamming his hands onto the table and looking at them. Yllia's throat tightened – Jowan looked older, more panicked, and fiercer than she could ever remember him looking. " _I won't let you touch her!_ " Blood began to spread out from his heads, coating his skin, spilling over the edge of the table until it began to cover everything. Yllia leapt back from the table and covered her ears with her hands and opened her mouth to scream…

" _Yllia!_ "

Yllia's eyes snapped open wide. She twisted on her bedroll, lashing out at whatever it was that had her by the shoulders. Her hand connected with something hard, followed by a very unmanly yelp, and she sat up in a rush. The light shift she wore for sleep clung to her body with sweat, her unbound hair sticking out every which way as her eyes fell on her attacker.

"….Alistair?"

The warrior in question was kneeling near the front of her tent, one hand cupping his eye while the other glowered at her. " _Ow_ ," he said pointedly. "This is the thanks I get for trying to wake you up? I thought it was _rogues_ you had to watch out for, not _mages_."

Yllia stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Alistair?" she repeated. "What are you doing in here?"

"Well, I _thought_ I was helping you, but from the right hook you just delivered to my skull I'm starting to think otherwise." He rubbed his eye, and then pulled his hand away. "Fortunately you hit like a girl."

"…And why haven't I thrown you out of my tent yet?"

He held up his hands in surrender. "I was on watch and I could hear into your tent," he said. "It sounded like you were having a nightmare, so I thought I'd try to wake you up. I wasn't expecting you to up and punch me for it, though."

Heat rose in Yllia's cheeks, and she looked down at her hands. The knuckles of one of them were red from the strike. "…oh," she said. "Sorry about that. I have this…thing about being grabbed. I don't like it."

"I'll make a note of that."

Then he paused as another voice wafted through the closed tent flap. "Is everything okay in there?" Leliana's soprano lilt came through. "I heard a shout."

Yllia cleared her throat. "Everything's fine, Leliana," she called back. "Nothing to worry about."

"All right. I'll take over the watch for you, Alistair." There seemed to be a touch of amusement to her words, which Yllia chose not to read too much into.

"Uh, thanks," Alistair called to her, and then looked at Yllia questioning. "Unless you'd rather I go finish my shift…?"

She brushed her hair back and shook her head. "It's okay," she said softly. "You can stay. I'm sorry I hit you."

Now Alistair paused and gave his fellow Warden a searching look. "Was it the darkspawn?"

"No," Yllia replied, smiling slightly at the fact that Alistair had apparently picked up on her troubled state. "It was…an older dream. Or nightmare, if you want to call it that. Memories mixing in my head. I tend to recall them rather vividly, even after I wake up."

Alistair folded his long legs under him, sitting cross-legged next to her bedroll. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She laughed, the sound harsh even to her own ears. "I'm sure there are other things more interesting than the nightmares of a mage," she said with just a touch of cynicism. She opened her mouth to brush off the topic completely when she felt the heavy warmth of his hand on her bare arm. Gooseflesh rippled its way up her skin and she turned her head to stare into anxious, attentive hazel eyes.

"Talk to me," Alistair urged. "If you think it will help, I'll listen."

Oh, _why_ did he have to look so sincere, so genuinely interested in being her sounding board? She hadn't had anyone like that since she'd left the Circle, and she'd been determined to not need it. She was a fully Harrowed mage, for Maker's sake, not a fledgling apprentice. She should be able to handle a few nightmares.

But Alistair's assiduous concern was pushing down her walls faster than she could rebuild them, and she reluctantly admitted her defeat.

"Did Duncan ever tell you how he ended up conscripting me?" she asked, drawing her knees up to her chest, clasping her arms around them.

Alistair shook his head. "Duncan always left it up to the recruit to explain how they came to join the Grey Wardens," he said. "He never offered anyone's story without their permission. All I know for sure is that the two of you met at the Circle of Magi."

Yllia nodded, worrying her lower lip with her teeth as she stared at a fixed point before her, running words through her head as she tried to find the right way to begin. "When I met Duncan," she said finally, "I was a freshly Harrowed mage, just barely out of my apprenticeship. Do you know what the Harrowing is? Wait – of course you do, you trained as a templar. I was intrigued when I found out that Duncan was a Grey Warden, naturally. You hear stories of the Wardens, read their legends in tomes, but I'd never imagined getting the opportunity to meet one.

"I don't know if Duncan intended to conscript me into the Wardens at that point or not – our meeting was brief, and there were a lot of things on my mind. Being a mage now meant that I had an entirely new living situation to adjust to, as well as new responsibilities and new training." She smiled, a slight curving of her lips. "I was especially looking forward to the training. I'd just discovered a new tome on Primal magic the night before, see, and I was eager to see if they'd let me experiment…but you're not really interested in that, are you?"

Alistair grinned, noting the way her eyes had brightened briefly as she'd rambled about magic. "It's okay," he encouraged. "Go on."

"At any rate, I didn't get a chance to actually reach my new quarters. After leaving Duncan, a friend of mine waylaid me, pulling me aside to talk to me." Yllia paused for a moment, hugging her knees a bit more tightly. She wondered how much of this she should really be telling Alistair – but then, it wasn't as if it actually mattered, was it? The damage was already done. She couldn't go back and change the past.

That was starting to become the mantra of her life.

"I had very few friends in the Circle," she said softly. "Mages don't have the same sort of prejudices towards elves that the outside world seems to, but there aren't many of us within the confines of the Circle, and it _does_ set us apart. And I was younger than most when I was first brought in, which made connecting with the other children difficult."

"How much younger?" Alistair interrupted.

Yllia blinked. Then she frowned slightly. "I think I was…four? My power manifested…early. It happens occasionally, in rare cases."

He tilted his head to one side, regarding her with curiosity. "So you were a prodigy?" he asked.

The word drew an unexpected laugh from her, starling him, and she held up her hand in apology as she got mirth under control. "Prodigy, _me_? Oh, Maker, _no_. Just an early start, but I can assure you, I was no more advanced than any of the other apprentices. I didn't grow by leaps and bounds, I learned at the same rate they did – I just did it, age-wise, two years earlier. But it's not like they Harrowed me earlier than anyone else. In fact, I got to watch most of my year-mates get Harrowed _before_ me. Well, not watched but…" Her voice trailed off, and for a moment she looked uncomfortable.

"Yeah." Alistair gave a slight nod. "I know."

There were times when Yllia forgot about Alistair's templar training entirely – and then there were moments like these when she was glad for it, because it kept her from having to explain bits and pieces about the life of a mage that mundane people couldn't understand. And she couldn't help but feel a flutter of quiet joy whenever it became clear that Alistair disagreed with some of the templar and Circle practices as much as _she_ did.

She offered him a smile that he returned, and then continued. "But back on topic. As I said, I was younger than most of the other apprentices, but that didn't stop me from making a couple of friends. One of them was an apprentice a few years older than me – _his_ powers had manifested later than most, so he was almost as new to the Circle as I was." For a moment the image of the earnest, friendly dark-haired boy of those childhood years came to mind, and her eyes went suspiciously blurry. "His name was Jowan, and he became my best friend."

Alistair gave Yllia a searching look, attempting to be more discreet about it than he actually succeeded at. "Just a…friend?" he asked with feigned innocence.

The question brought heat to her cheeks, and she laughed. " _Just_ a friend," she said firmly. "I can safely say I _never_ thought of Jowan that way. He's the closest thing I've ever had to a brother. That would just be…strange."

He laughed then, shoving his hand through his hair as he was wont to do when nervous at times. "Right," he said. "I was just, you know, curious. Not prying or anything. I wouldn't do that. So. Friend. Right. Go on?"

She looked at him with amusement, though she grew sober the moment she began to speak again. "Skip ahead about, oh, fourteen years," she said softly. "Present day. It took me a few days to wake up after passing out from my Harrowing, and to say I was disoriented when I did would be a _huge_ understatement. I think I was heading for a meeting with the First Enchanter when I saw Jowan. He was…fidgeting. Anxious. He congratulated me on passing my Harrowing but…I could tell that something wasn't right. I couldn't stay and talk, I had to see Irving, but Jowan insisted that we talk later. I agreed. He was my best friend – why _wouldn't_ I agree?"

If she hadn't agreed, how different would her life be right now? Would she still be a Grey Warden, or would she be a mage trapped? And what of Jowan? For a moment her composure shook, and she took a moment to blink her eyes clear. Alistair was listening quietly, expectantly – her breaking down before she even got to the _reason_ wouldn't go over very well.

"So after I met with the First Enchanter – that was the first time I met Duncan, too – I went to find Jowan. Only he wound up finding me first, and he was even more of a nervous wreck than he'd been before I'd gone to see Irving. I knew right away that there was going to be trouble. And I was right."

She was barely aware of herself as she continued talking, the words tumbling out of her mouth as she told Alistair of the following events. Of the introduction to Lily, the Chantry sister that Jowan had been secretly involved with, even keeping the relationship from _her_. Of his revelation that he had discovered proof that the templars intended to make him Tranquil rather than give him a chance at a Harrowing. Of his distraught pleas as he begged her to help the two of them escape from the Tower. Of the plan to destroy Jowan's phylactery so that he and Lily could never be traced.

How they had succeeded. How they had failed.

"The templars had us cornered," Yllia said softly. Alistair hadn't interrupted her once, listening attentively, his reaction unusually difficult to gauge. "They threatened us. They threatened Lily. And Jowan," Sweet, even-tempered, sometimes nervous Jowan, "panicked. He had a dagger, I don't know where it came from, and he…I don't know how he learned it. _When_ he learned it. But he drew the blade, and he used his blood."

"Blood magic," Alistair said, and she watched his eyes grow wide at the words. "Your friend was a _maleficar?_ "

" _No_." The word came out more forceful than she intended, and it startled them both. "Jowan wasn't… I swear on the Maker and Andraste both, he only used the spell out of desperation, and he didn't hurt any of them! They were threatening Lily and me; he was trying to protect us." She swallowed hard, wringing her hands together as she struggled without her own thoughts. "He…"

A hand far larger than her own covered hers, drawing her attention up from her knees and to Alistair's face. "Breathe," he coaxed, and she did, a slow shuddering breath that let her ease the tension out of her muscles and relax. He gave her an encouraging smile, squeezing her hands lightly and putting just a bit of pressure on them. "Better?"

She nodded, a flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck. Already their companions – including Alistair himself – had begun to look towards her for leadership, and here she was having a near breakdown in her tent. The only saving grace was that it was only Alistair who was seeing it happen. She would have been mortified if Morrigan, or even Leliana, had seen her like this. She looked down again, not quite able to keep meeting Alistair's eyes. "This is the first time I've talked about this."

"I can tell," Alistair said gently. "Don't worry about it. I had a devil of a time telling you _my_ issues, didn't I?" His lightly cajoling tone caused her lips to twitch with a hint of smile. "So what happened after?"

"A lot of it is a blur," Yllia replied, following Alistair's prompt. "When Lily realized Jowan really was a blood mage she turned on him, rejecting him completely. The look on his face…in all the confusion he managed to escape, though I imagine… the templars have probably caught up to him by now. And when they do, he'll either be made Tranquil or…worse."

"It's not your fault, Yllia," Alistair said. The guilt in her eyes was obvious.

"Isn't it?" Yllia met his eyes with resigned sadness. "I was his friend. His family. And when he needed me the most I _froze_. I saw him use the blood magic, and I couldn't do anything."

"What would you have done?" Alistair asked. "Would you have stopped him? Helped him escape? You're lucky enough that you didn't get _yourself_ killed in the process."

His response was a scowl, but no argument. Logically she knew that. But while her head understood, her heart was still convinced that there ought to have been something more she could do for Jowan. When Lily had thrown herself at the templars' mercy after Jowan's escape, Yllia had wanted to fry the girl herself. Not an hour earlier she'd been professing her sincere love for Jowan, and then the moment she realized he had learned blood magic she turned against him.

"It's not your fault," Alistair repeated, shaking his head at her. His eyes were alit with sympathy. "Your friend made his choice; it wasn't yours to make for him. But I know there's more to this. What happened after he ran?"

She took in a steadying breath before continuing. "They took Lily away for her part in it. I don't know what became of her – they probably took her to Aeonar for turning against her vows and helping Jowan to destroy his phylactery. As for me… well, when they saw that Jowan could do blood magic, they were quick enough to suspect that I was capable of the same things. Everyone at the Tower knew the two of us were close.

"Fortunately, before they could start throwing the accusations and bringing out the cuffs, intervention came in the form of Duncan. I hadn't even noticed him there or realized he'd been paying attention to what was going on, but apparently he had because the next thing I knew, he was interceding on my behalf with the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander, and conscripted me on the spot." Yllia shook her head. "I'm still amazed at that. I mean, they were practically accusing me of being a blood mage, and _Duncan_ wanted me for a _Grey Warden_. How does that even _work_? _"_

"Grey Wardens will conscript anyone and anything that they think might be useful to their cause," Alistair said with a grin. "Look at me, for example – almost-templar, recruited for my abilities to dampen magic. Useful against their emissaries. Then there was Daveth, you heard him talk about how he was a cutpurse headed for the hangman's noose when Duncan conscripted _him_. And I know for a fact there have been blood mages among the Grey Wardens in the past, the mage that was part of Duncan's unit before he recruited you was one. So Duncan must have seen _something_ in you that he thought would be useful against the Blight." His grin softened into a charming smile that brought another blush to her cheeks. "I think he made a good choice."

"If you don't stop trying to make me blush, I really will throw you out of here," Yllia threatened, but her smile was becoming more defined, more permanent in response to his lighthearted tone. For the first time since she'd woken from her nightmare she felt herself start to relax fully, easing her body into a more at ease posture, releasing her legs and letting them stretch on before her.

"Now that's the Yllia that I'm more used to," Alistair joked, "threatening me with bodily harm over the smallest things. So. Feel better, getting all of that off your chest?"

She idly traced patterns in the bare ground next to her bedroll. "Oddly? Yes, somewhat. I kept telling myself that it didn't matter, that it didn't have any impact on what was happening now, but…talking about it helped." Yllia shifted and leaned forward, touching his knee and looking at her earnestly. "Thank you, Alistair."

He froze at her touch, staring blankly down at her hand for a moment, and then slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers. Their eyes met, sky blue to soft hazel, as Alistair's own hand moved to cover hers, a warm presence against her chilled skin. His lips parted as if he intended to speak, but no words emerged; she told herself that really, she needed to look away lest she be caught staring, and then…

"If the two of you are done with your little _discussion_ in there," Morrigan's voice came through the heavy fabric of the tent, her shadow casting against the closed flap, "the rest of us would rather like to have a morning meal and break camp."

They yanked back their hands with a start. Moment broken, Yllia could only bite back a groan, making note of the gleeful quality to Morrigan's voice that indicated the witch was more than delighted to interrupt whatever it was she thought was going on inside of the tent. Alistair was turning a rather startling shade of red, and he managed to both cough and clear his throat at the same time, which – judging by his immediate wince – was not in the least bit comfortable.

"That's my cue, then," Alistair said quickly – as little too quick. "I'll leave you to, ah, dress, and I'll make sure there's some breakfast left for you." He flashed an easygoing grin and then reached for the tent flap, throwing it open and hurrying out. Yllia heard Leliana and Morrigan make a couple of comments and Alistair stammer out a retort, but she didn't pay close enough attention to catch what they actually said.

Just as well. She didn't need another reason to turn red in the face – not when she was already struggling to get the heat already there off. She couldn't believe that it was actually dawn already. Her discussion with Alistair must have taken longer to get through than she'd thought. She'd been so absorbed in her story, and Alistair…Alistair had listened without interruption, without judgment. Just like he always did.

Yllia fell back against her bedroll and stared up at the roof of her tent. She felt as if a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders, and a smile played at her lips at the realization. It had been a long time since she'd opened up to anyone so much, and there was a happy flutter within her chest, knowing that Alistair didn't think any different of her after hearing her story. It didn't change what had happened – the guilt over Jowan was still there – but feeling like she had someone to confide in made things easier.

_Is it silly of me to hope_ , Yllia thought as she sat back up and reached for her folded robes, _that I'll always have him to confide in_?

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

The hands of Fate move in strange, mysterious ways. The smallest flap of a butterfly's wings can cause changes in the wind half way around the world. The simplest word spoken in the heat of the moment can have an irreversible effect on another person's life.

The cut of a knife against skin can open a road unseen.

It is choices that shape lives – yet how much of choice is chance?

And how much of choice is Fate?

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

They reached Redcliffe an hour after dawn's first light began to bring itself up over the horizon, weary despite the full night of sleep most of them had managed.

Their plan had been to go to Redcliffe Castle and seek an audience with Arl Eamon and persuade him to aid their cause by pledging his troops. It was, Alistair assured them, a good plan. The Arl's troops hadn't been at Ostagar; they would be fresh forces. And once the Arl knew of what had transpired at Ostagar, it was highly unlikely that he would support Loghain's regency. It would give them a safe haven in Ferelden when they were currently labeled traitors and murderers.

As they approached the bridge that led to both castle and village, Yllia decided that plans were only at their most effective until one actually went to instigate them.

Rhys, moving on a few feet ahead of his mistress, stopped without warning and thrust his nose into the air, sniffing the wind, his ears pricked and alert.

"Your mu-dog," Morrigan caught herself on the word mutt, having discovered the hard way that Rhys wasn't fond of the word, "appears to be sensing something." She paused and frowned slightly. "…as do I and I cannot say I much care for it."

The hairs on the back of Yllia's neck stood on end, and gooseflesh prickled its way along her arms, which she automatically moved to rub. "You feel it, too?" she asked.

Morrigan gave a slight nod, narrowing her golden eyes.

"What is it?" Leliana asked from behind them, sounding troubled.

"Magic," Morrigan replied. "There is some sort of magic at work in this place – a dark power, sinister in nature."

Alistair looked at them in alarm, momentarily forgetting that he and Morrigan didn't get along in his sudden anxiety for Redcliffe. "What do you mean, sinister?" he asked, eyes flicking back and forth between the two mages.

Yllia didn't answer, far too disturbed by what it was that she was feeling on the air. The spread of power was too thin to pinpoint, beyond that it was emanating from Redcliffe itself. "Come on," she said, starting forward. She didn't like this. Her survival instincts were screaming at her to turn around and go someplace else, but she couldn't do that in good conscience.

The first person they met was on the bridge itself, a young man clad in armor, a bow and quiver strapped to his back. That alone alarmed Yllia, for she couldn't think of a single reason why someone _inside_ the village would need to be armed.

The tawny-haired youth greeted them with nervous eyes and equally nervous words, fidgeting anxiously as he waited for them to approach. "Good morning, sers," he said, glancing at Yllia briefly before his eyes settled on Alistair. Yllia bit back a sigh. Yes, the leader of their ragtag group _must_ be the human in the shiny armor, not the elf in the robes with a stick on her back. And the size of Hawke's father's robes made her seem even smaller than normal; no wonder his eyes had gone right over her. She mentally counted backwards from ten, and then focused on what the youth was saying.

And then she forgot all about her annoyance as the guard, Tomas, first tried to get them to turn back, and then haltingly explained that the castle was inaccessible and that no one had been able to get in contact with anyone within for days. Moreover the village itself had been subjected to nightly raids, each night resulting in more and more villagers being killed or dragged away by monsters. Yllia tried pressing for more information, but Tomas insisted that he knew nothing else.

He was, however, willing to lead them to the Redcliffe chantry, where they could ask Arl Eamon's brother about what he knew.

The closer to the village they got, the more apparent it became that something was drastically Not Right. Yllia kept one hand on the top of Rhys' head, and even Alistair, Leliana, and Sten were beginning to appear disturbed. Morrigan's expression remained impassive, but Yllia could see her eyes scanning the area, taking note of everything that they passed.

"This isn't right," Alistair said as they made their way down the sloped path that led into the main village. "Where are all of the villagers?"

He was right – the only people that Yllia could see were soldiers, men and women in armor and bearing weapons. Of actual _civilians_ she saw no sign. And was it just her, or did the soldiers all seem a bit…nervous?

"Everyone is in the Chantry," Tomas said, glancing back at them over his shoulder. "Most people are too afraid to leave it now…even during the day. And, well…there aren't many people left."

"How long has this been going on for?" Yllia asked as they reached the Chantry.

"Two…three nights now, maybe?" Tomas looked anxious, biting his lip. "I honestly don't know. The last few days have just been…" He trailed off and gave a shake of his head. "Bann Teagan can answer your questions better than I can." He pushed the door open fully, letting them inside.

Once again Yllia found herself in a refugee-filled Chantry, but unlike the one in Lothering, this one was filled with people who actually lived in the village they were taking refuge from, their own houses standing empty within walking distance from where they were hiding. A quick glance around showed no signs of templars – the only soldiers appeared to be Redcliffe militia, and Chantry sisters moved from huddled group to huddled group dispensing what little aid they could. Even with just a brief glance around, it was clear that even the Chantry itself was on its last legs as a refuge.

Her eyes landed on a tall, red-haired man wearing armor that seemed to be of a better grade than most speaking with a few members of the militia, his back turned slightly towards them. He seemed to be giving them instructions.

Yllia turned to look at Alistair. "Is that…?"

"It's been about ten years since I last saw him," Alistair said, his eyes on the man, "but yes – that's Bann Teagan. He probably doesn't remember me, though…"

"Then let's go talk to him." She turned to the others. "Stay here while Alistair and I speak with the bann. I think the fewer of us who approach him the better."

Leliana looked at her in concern. "Are you certain?" she asked. "I have heard the Bann of Rainesfere is a fair man, but if the situation is truly as serious as it seems…"

Yllia smiled at her reassuringly. "We're just going to talk to him," she said. "Alistair and I will be fine." She looked at Morrigan and Sten. "Everyone else all right with waiting?"

Morrigan gave a slight shrug of indifference, her expression a touch distant, preoccupied with the traces of magic that she could sense in the air. Sten nodded sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. He was getting more than a few wary looks from refugees, soldiers, and sisters like, but he gave them no return notice. At least Yllia was fairly certain he wouldn't cause any trouble.

After Lothering, trouble was decidedly something that Yllia wanted to avoid.

Alistair looked nervous as they made their way past the pews towards the front of the Chantry, and she brushed her hand against his wrist. She felt his tendons flex inside of his gauntlet as he opened and closed his fist, but some of the unease vanished from his eyes at her touch. Their fingertips brushed together in the faintest of touches as they reached the bann and she withdrew her hand.

"Excuse me," she said, adopting her most composed tone, "Bann Teagan?"

The man paused in his conversation with the militiaman, and turned to face them fully, a question in his eyes. "Yes?" he asked, clearly startled by the sight of a group of complete strangers standing in the Chantry. There was also more than a touch of caution and apprehension, as if he weren't quite prepared to welcome said strangers when the village was apparently in the middle of a martial crisis.

"A man named Tomas told us to seek you out," Yllia replied, meeting his gaze steadily. "We came to Redcliffe for aid, but we understand that you yourselves are in need of some right now. We'd like to offer our assistance."

Teagan was visibly startled – he must have given up on _anyone_ offering outside aid, regardless of who they were. She noticed then just out weary and strained he looked; the man was probably younger than she estimated him for, the stress of the situation putting age on his features.

Then his eyes went to the staff on her back, and she saw just the faintest trace of suspicion enter into his eyes.

"My name is Yllia Surana," she quickly introduced herself before the bann became more guarded. "And this is my companion, Alistair. We're Grey Wardens."

They both held their breath as they waited for the words to register with Teagan, and Yllia knew that Alistair had to be a nervous wreck inside. No doubt he was running himself around in circles in his mind wondering if Teagan would remember or recognize him, or if he'd just assume he was some other Alistair. She was tempted to reach for his hand again, but held back; there was a time and place for everything, and it was _not_ the moment when she was waiting to see if they'd be welcome or tossed to the wolves.

She was not prepared for the overwhelming relief that lit up Teagan's face in the next moment, and for a brief moment she had the uneasy thought that the man might actually attempt to _hug_ her. "Thank the Maker!" Teagan exclaimed. "You don't know how relieved I am to hear that Wardens yet live – and _Alistair_ , is that really you?" Teagan reached out and grasped Alistair's forearm, earning a similar gesture from the warrior as a relieved smile brightened his face. "I'd heard the Wardens had all perished at Ostagar."

Alistair gripped Teagan's arm tight for a moment, before they mutually released each other. "Almost all," he said, and there was no little bitterness in his words. "Yllia and I were assigned elsewhere, and so we managed to escape. No thanks to _Loghain_."

Teagan's expression darkened a touch. "I suspect we have much that we need to discuss," he said grimly. "Unfortunately, at the moment Redcliffe is faced with a rather dire situation that calls for more immediate attention."

"Tomas told us some of what's been happening," Yllia said, her expression growing serious at the despondency in Teagan's voice. "But he was all over the place with his explanation. He did mention attacks on the village and undead, however."

"We were hoping that was an overstatement," Alistair added.

"I wish it were." Teagan motioned for them to follow him into one of the side rooms, where they were afforded a bit more privacy than simply standing out in the open.

Once they were tucked away into the corner, out of sight of prying and fearful eyes, Teagan crossed his arms over his chest. "Three nights ago we lost contact with the castle," he said, his words quiet but audible."Not a soul has emerged from it since all of this started. I sent soldiers and militiamen to try and find out what happened, and none of them have returned."

"None?" Yllia asked as a chill rippling down her spine. Her thoughts went momentarily to the heavy curtain of foreboding magic both she and Morrigan had felt.

"None," Teagan confirmed. "When the first group didn't return, I was preparing to send scouts in through an underground passage into the castle – and that was when the attacks began."

He closed his eyes, expression strained. "The first night was the worst. No one was prepared. Everyone was worried about having not heard from the castle, about the soldiers not returning, but no one was expecting to be suddenly besieged by a horde of undead. They attacked anyone still out in the streets, they…" Teagan cut himself off, shaking his head. Yllia's heart went out to the man – she'd heard about what the undead could do to their victims. No doubt he'd carry the horrors of that first night with him for the rest of his life.

"Bann Teagan," Alistair said anxiously, "how was it that you were down here, in the village, and not up at the castle?"

"I'd just returned from Denerim the morning the castle gates came down," Teagan replied. "I'd been due back the night before, but was delayed…" He fell silent for a moment, and it wasn't difficult to tell what was going through his mind. If he'd arrived on schedule, no doubt _he'd_ be trapped within that castle along with his brother and his brother's family.

Teagan shook his head suddenly, snapping himself out of his melancholy thoughts. He looked at the two of them. "I know I have no right to ask this of you," he said with a pleading note in his voice, "but I must, for the sake of Redcliffe and my brother. The village will not last another night if beset upon by undead once more. Warden Yllia, Alistair, please – will you help us defend Redcliffe? Will you help _me_ find out what has happened at the castle?"

Yllia and Alistair looked at each other. Her fellow Warden had a silent, pleading look in his eyes. Redcliffe was the closest thing he'd ever had to a family outside of the Grey Wardens. He'd already lost his brother Wardens, already lost Duncan – Yllia didn't want to think about what it would do to Alistair if he lost the Arl as well. She was certain that it was concern for them that drove Alistair more than their need to enlist Arl Eamon's help against the Blight and Teyrn Loghain.

She thought back to the look on his face at Flemeth's hut, the day after their lives had been flipped on end and everything had come crashing down around them.

She never wanted to see that expression on Alistair's face again.

The look of relief on Alistair's face matched that of Teagan's when she told them that they would do what they could to help.

The sun continued to make its relentless pass through the sky, and the curtain of dark magic hanging over Redcliffe grew heavier.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

' _No matter how many times that you told me you wanted to leave;_

_No matter how many breaths that you took you still couldn't breathe;_

_No matter how many nights that you'd lie wide awake to the sound of the poison rain;_

_Where did you go, where did you go, where did you go'_

' _Hurricane' - 30 Seconds to Mars_


	11. Taking Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yllia struggles with uneasiness and uncertainty, an assassin prepares to cross the sea, and time runs out for Lothering.

The sun blazed down on the open-air _caffé_ situated near Antiva City's harbor, overlooking the shining blue waters of the Rialto Bay. It was a hot, humid day – as were many days in the capital of Antiva. All around the _caffé_ the crowds bustled, merchants plying their wares, servants hurrying to their duties, courtesans flirting and smiling. The docks were full that day with passenger and cargo ships. It was a busy day – a truly beautiful day.

Two men sat at a table in the _caffé_ , shielded under one of the few shaded awnings that provided a certain amount of protection from the heat. One of them was dark-haired and dark-eyed, a well-trimmed beard and short-cropped hair against tanned skin giving him a swarthy appearance. His companion was the exact opposite in appearance, honey-blonde hair hanging down to his shoulders and clean-shaven as all elves were. Both were dressed casually in open-necked tunics and well-fitting trousers. To a casual observer it would appear that they were simply two friends sharing a meal together.

Even someone looking more closely would be hard-pressed to identify the subtle bulges in clothing that concealed the daggers both men kept on hand even when not on assignment. A hazard of their mutual profession, and one they were both highly accustomed to.

The dark-haired man suddenly leaned forward, one hand resting on flat on the table as he looked at the elf across from him. "Have you gone mad?" he hissed. "There are more than enough jobs going around on this side of the Waking Sea – there's no need for you to go traipsing off to some dog lord backwater country after a mad contract such as this!"

The elf waved off his concern, leaning back in his chair with one leg casually crossed over the other. "You worry too much, my friend," he replied. "It is a good job with an excellent reward, should I succeed. And there is no guarantee that I will even get the assignment. My bid must be accepted first, of course."

"And you think that's going to be difficult?" the other man asked bitingly. "I'll be amazed if anyone else was fool enough to even put _in_ a bid. Even the guild master knew when the request came in that the job was suicide. If it were taking place in Antiva the _client_ would have likely found himself on the end of an assassin's blade!" He lowered his voice to a near whisper, though his tone was no less intense. "We're talking about _Grey Wardens_ , Zevran!"

"I am quite aware of the details, Taliesin." The elf's cavalier attitude was interrupted by a slight narrowing of his eyes, a warning glint within amber irises that cautioned the other man against continuing along this line of conversation. But Taliesin had never been one to adhere to caution; it was one of the things that made him so good at his job.

"Then why?" Taliesin searched Zevran's face, but the elf had closed himself off, hiding his thoughts behind a veneer of smiles and warnings, one of his many-layered masks firmly in place. The older man clenched his jaw in frustration, the fingers of his hand twitching with the urge to go for one of his daggers and threaten an answer out of him. He stayed his hand – draw on Zevran and he ran the risk of losing a finger. At least.

Zevran had always been skilled in deception, but around those who knew him best he had never put up his guard quite so tightly. That had changed six months ago. Six months, and Taliesin had sensed Zevran slipping away with each passing day. He knew why – he'd have to be a fool not to – but the thought of it affecting Zevran so _deeply_ infuriated him. He and Zevran had been together for years. _Years_. That one incident could potentially bring this all crashing down…Taliesin had spent the last month encouraging Zevran to put in a bid for a challenge, and what did finally do? He bid on a job so _foolish_ that not even the masters wanted to touch it.

When Zevran failed to respond, Taliesin opened his mouth to begin his next protest, only to pull up short as a shadow fell across their table. Both men looked up to see one of the serving girls standing next to them, holding an empty tray. Taliesin felt a flash of irritation. They'd already received their meals, and neither of them had made any indication that they wanted to place another order.

"Pardon me, _signori_ ," the serving woman said, and Taliesin's irritation quelled. She had a lovely lilt to her voice and her eyes were rather mesmerizing. "I have a _messaggio_." She slipped her hand into the plunging neckline of her dress, withdrawing a folded paper, and extended it towards Zevran. When he took it without batting an eye, she turned and left them be.

Silently he opened it message, reading the words hidden inside. Then he refolded it and slipped it into his belt, rising gracefully to his feet. He placed a handful of coin on the table. "To cover my half of the tab, my friend," Zevran said with a smile to Taliesin. "It appears that I have a ship's passage to barter. Farewell, Taliesin." And then the elf was gone, winding his way around the tables until he reached the crowd of the harbor and market, disappearing into the throngs as swiftly as he intended and leaving Taliesin to sit and stare after him. There was something about Zevran's departure that seemed…final.

He shook his head. Ridiculous. Zevran, lucky bastard that he was, would likely defy all odds and complete the job, then return within a fortnight. And he would lord his success over the rest of them as he normally did, exaggerating his success until it was impossible to tell how much was fact and how much fiction. Just as he had done before that last mission – before he had left himself become distracted by _unnecessary_ things.

Taliesin raised his glass to his lips and took a sip of the brandy, turning his thoughts away from Zevran and scanning the _caffé_ , searching for the lovely serving girl with the unusual golden eyes.

But she was nowhere to be found.

  
***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***   


The sun had begun its descent towards the horizon, turning the sky into a palette of rich ambers and golds. Yllia stood against the outer wall of the Chantry, arms crossed over her chest as she stared up at the sky. Rhys lay curled up at her feet, seemingly asleep but with ears perked in alert. Soon the sun would disappear completely, leading to twilight – the hour-long prelude to battle. Teagan had told her the undead always swarmed at the same time, as the last light faded into the black of night.

How very poetic.

"I thought perhaps you'd be here."

Yllia tore her eyes away from the sky to look at Morrigan as the other mage climbed the few steps of the Chantry to join her. Yllia smiled, aware of how different she and Morrigan appeared side-by-side – a petite elf practically swimming in a too-large set of robes, and a tall buxom human clad in far too little to avoid enflaming the imaginations of men and boys alike. Yllia momentarily entertained the thought of a Chantry sister emerging from within the building just then and seeing them, and the subsequent expression that would likely be on the woman's face, and then stored that away for another time when she could appreciate the humor.

"Where have you been?" Yllia asked. After agreeing to help, Yllia had spoken with Redcliffe's mayor, Murdock, and gathered an idea of what tasks needed to be completed and what would help. She'd split those up among their group, but at some point during the day Morrigan had slipped away and disappeared. Given her natural proclivity of keeping herself apart from the rest of the party, the vanishing act hadn't concerned Yllia so long as Morrigan returned before sundown. Alistair had been irritated but…well, when _didn't_ Morrigan irritate Alistair?

"Preparing," Morrigan replied simply enough. She placed a hand on her hip, looking down at the elvhen mage. "'Tis growing stronger – have you noticed?"

"You mean the magic?" Morrigan gave a nod, and Yllia played with her hair uneasily. "I've noticed. The closer we get to nightfall, true night, the stronger it gets. No one else seems to notice it, but it's practically suffocating."

"'Tis the scent of dark power on the wind," Morrigan replied, "and 'tis coming from the direction of the castle. I suspect we shall find its source at the same time as the originator of the undead."

"Do you know anything about undead, Morrigan?" Yllia asked. "I've dealt with demons, but necromancy…that's blood magic, and the Circle keeps such things under lock and key." _Not that it stops mages from learning the secrets anyway…_

"Ah, yes – I forget on occasion how narrow the scope of your learning has been." Morrigan's disdain was unmistakable, and Yllia bit back her retort, her eye twitching slightly. If she wanted to discuss magical theory with Morrigan later, she was going to have to do her best not to alienate the woman now. "Fortunately mine has _not_ , and though I have no taste for the art itself, I do believe you are correct in surmising that this is a form of necromancy. I do _not,_ however, believe the cause is from a blood mage. Not directly, at least."

Yllia frowned, looking at Morrigan intently. "Not directly?" she asked. "What do you mean?"

"There is an air about this magic," Morrigan replied. She narrowed her eyes a touch, as if best trying to determine how to best explain what she meant. "I sense too much of the Fade in it. If it is the work of a blood mage, then it is a mage grounded more in the Fade than out of it."

A chill swept down Yllia's spine. "An abomination?"

"Perhaps. Or something of a similar nature." Morrigan looked down at her, her amber eyes darkening with the setting of the sun. "Yllia, I know that I cannot dissuade you from aiding this village or seeing to the matter at the castle. Therefore I will simply implore you to tread carefully. We know not what matter of mage or demon we may be facing here. Be prepared for anything."

If Alistair had been there, he would have made some biting comment about Morrigan seeming concerned for someone else. But as Yllia looked into the other woman's eyes, she realized with a start that Morrigan meant the words she said. She was truly concerned for Yllia's safety. Her indifference up until now had led Yllia to believe that Morrigan couldn't care less what actually happened to her companions, that she was only there at the behest of her mother, but perhaps that wasn't as true as she made it seem?

"I will be," she said with a nod. "And thank you, Morrigan. I know you aren't exactly thrilled to be traveling with us, but I do appreciate your help. Alistair does, too. Somewhere. Deep, deep down inside."

"So far down that it will apparently never rise to the surface," Morrigan said dryly, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Speaking of our pet almost-templar, should he not have returned to your side by now?"

"He's up at the windmill with Ser Perth, helping him with his men," Yllia replied, her eyes going towards the steep incline that led to the upper levels of Redcliffe Village and automatically seeking out any sign of Alistair's familiar armor. "Leliana's at the tavern, and I'm not certain where Sten got himself off to. He was with me for a bit – I had to convince a few of the villagers to lend a helping hand, and they were…less than amicable. I managed it, though."

Her expression darkened a touch. "I just hope I haven't condemned them to certain death."

"Better to die defending one's home than to do so as a lamb in slaughter," Morrigan said, resting her hand on her hip. "They may not be aware nor appreciative of it, but you may have done them a favor."

"Oh, I'm _sure_ at least one of them is not appreciative of it," Yllia replied, wrinkling her nose as the memory of the cantankerous dwarf who had actually had the audacity to think that she was propositioning him. She sighed, glancing once more up towards the sky. "…Tonight is Redcliffe's last chance. If we can't fend off the undead tonight, they're done for."

"And even if we do push them back, we shall still have to uncover the executor of all this before the next night," Morrigan pointed out. "Or else they will simply conjure another attack come nightfall."

"One focus at a time," Yllia said, her expression strained.

"And here comes one of your favorite focuses," Morrigan murmured, quiet enough that Yllia almost didn't hear her and had to look at her to be sure that she'd spoken.

When she did, she saw what Morrigan had seen – Alistair making his way down the incline steps with Leliana alongside him. At the same time Sten emerged from near the docks, striding towards them with purpose. Yllia started down the steps of the Chantry, Morrigan and Rhys both following behind her.

They met in the middle of the village, the six of them looking at each other. "The militia's all ready," Alistair said. "As ready as they can be, at least. That armor you got the blacksmith to make really helped with their morale. So did the free ale from the tavern."

"Bella was more than happy to offer it once I convinced the tavern's proprietor to assist in the defense as well instead of remaining in his cellar like a sniveling pig," Leliana said with a smile. "I also met an archer who agreed to…cooperate in the battle. Remind me later to tell you what else it is he agreed to, once we have more time."

Yllia raised an eyebrow slightly. "Well, now I'm going to wonder the whole time," she said, Leliana's smile drawing one of her own out. She turned to Sten. "Find anything of note around the docks?"

"There is a storehouse containing barrels of oil. They could prove useful," Sten reported in his brisk, no-nonsense manner. Yllia had to admit, despite not being especially talkative the Qunari handled orders well enough, despite her being a mage. He even seemed to expect them, and Maker help her but she was starting to get used to giving them.

"Oil, hm?" Her smile grew, becoming more genuine, a gleam appearing in her eyes. "That really _could_ be useful. Alistair, take me to Ser Perth, I want to talk to him about something. I think we have just enough time before the sun finishes going down."

"Do you have a plan, Yllia?" Leliana asked with a tilt of her head.

"Possibly." Yllia brushed her hair back from her face. "While we're talking to Ser Perth, you better get ready on the front lines. I don't know how much warning we're going to get before these things attack."

And with that they separated again, each of them moving to positions previously discussed, preparing for a battle that they knew nothing about. Yllia started back up the hill with Alistair, her mind already racing with thoughts and plans. She quashed the nervous flutter in her stomach. This would be the first time she'd ever developed a strategy on her own – mages were not raised to be strategists or generals.

She glanced at the serious profile of the man walking beside her, his hazel eyes fixed resolutely ahead, and she was reminded of the last time the two of them prepared for battle together.

Maker, she hoped she didn't get anyone killed.

  
***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***   


Nightfall came all too soon.

Yllia had thought that, after the Tower of Ishal assault, she would have been prepared for anything. But the undead were nothing like the darkspawn. The darkspawn, driven by single-minded purpose and bloodlust as they were, were at least in control of their own faculties. They could choose to fight or run, they could choose who to attack and make strategic decisions in the heat of battle. And they operated as one unit, a massive hive mind that the Grey Wardens brushed against the edge of with every breath that they took.

The undead had no such capabilities. When they came down from the castle in a wave of putrid, decomposing flesh and rattling bones, they had no purpose, no strategy. Planning for what they might do based off of previous attacks was impossible. The only certainty was that if you breathed, if you were living flesh and nothing stood between you and them, they would set upon you _first_.

Three nights past now the undead had seized any and all who fell into their path, dragging them screaming into the night. Tonight they intended to do the same. They tore down the paths towards the village, salivating and scrambling for the nearest warm flesh.

Instead they found the sharpened edge of a Qunari's massive greatsword, slicing through the air with impossible speed for its size, cutting deep in the flesh of the first ghoul that lunged for its wielder. There was a brief moment of pause as Sten bisected the ghoul cleanly, the other undead hesitating as if somehow realizing, despite their mindless state, that their prey could actually fight back.

Then there was a cacophonous shriek as the undead struck en masse, several attempting to overpower the Qunari warrior while others moved past him for the militiamen and soldiers that held the ground past Sten. These were met by a hail of arrows from archers perched on high ground, led by Leliana barking commands on when to fire, her bardic voice crystal clear as it echoed in the night.

Between warrior and rogue, with the aid of the soldiers, they held the first line. But a second group of undead was attempting to enter from the opposite side of the village, and Alistair began shouting to Ser Perth and Teagan to change targets as soon as he caught sight of them. Several soldiers broke off from the fighting as the tide of undead from the main line fell back and turned to answer to call – only to stop as stare as a giant spider literally dropped down onto the nearest skeleton, tearing it apart with massive mandibles that looked fully capable of ripping apart an ox much less a pile of bones.

The undead scurried to escape Morrigan's vicious mandibles and fangs, deciding instantly that they were far more interested in Alistair's human flesh than the spider, not even the intimidating presence of the snarling mabari at Alistair's side serving as enough of a deterrent. They began to press Alistair backwards, forcing the warrior to move further and further back towards the village center. He parried and struck, keeping claws and teeth away from the few unshielded parts of his body, his muscular body not quite as adept at dodging as it was to blocking.

He moved into the center, drawing the bulk of the undead with him.

" _Now!_ " Yllia's voice rang up from atop the Chantry, where she perched precariously atop the slanted rooftop, out of sight. Alistair slammed the bottom of his shield into the dried, packed earth and crouched down behind it, tucking his head to protect it as Yllia unleashed a firestorm, balls of flame falling from the sky and striking down at the undead. Those that missed their targets directly hit soaked earth – oil-soaked, a wall of flame erupting around them and catching any who were spared the initial onslaught.

The flames exploded outwards, sweat breaking out on Yllia's brow as she fought to control the oil-fed fire, to spare as much of the village as possible. The strain of the spell forced her to her knee. Her vision blurred as she drew in a deep breath, the last of the undead catching aflame below her.

A sudden switch in casting. She let go of the flames, and cold ice erupted from her hands, washing over the undead corpses and Alistair. It was only through Alistair's own templar training and his careful positioning on the only bit of land not soaked by oil in the circle that he withstood the onslaught of her magic, and she had to trust that he would weather it. The flames died, ice covering everything it touched, and at last the corpses grew brittle and shattered.

Silence.

Then cheers erupted from the militia, the soldiers, and the villagers who had grabbed weapons and risen up to protect their home. The undead had crumbled under her onslaught, and it was Bann Teagan who led victory cries. Yllia felt a rush of amazement – had any mage actually been _cheered_ before in such fashion? Had any _elf?_ Did these people even realize who it was they were applauding, or was it simply that in the face of survival and success they didn't care?

Her eyes swept the battlefield, silently accounting for each of her companions. Leliana and Sten, Morrigan returned to her human form, Rhys sniffing his way through the corpses to make sure they were well and truly dead, and Alistair rising to his feet from behind his shield, his armor blackened but he himself no less worse for wear. She felt a rush of relief. The battle could have easily gone out of their favor.

She started to push herself to her feet when a sudden rush of vertigo struck her, the overwhelming feeling of mana drain pulsing through her body. She felt her foot slip on the slanted wooden slats, felt her center of balance shift, and then the weightlessness as her body tumbled from the roof and pitched into the air.

As her vision went dark, she dimly thought she heard Alistair shout her name.

  
***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***   


The sky was green again, everything below it tinted in the same sickly shade. There was no sign of the dragon, and yet still she could sense the darkspawn on the edge of her consciousness, that tingling sixth sense tickling at the back of her mind. Pulling her, tugging her, calling out for her to follow.

She stood on a massive plateau of dried, dead earth. Neither a bush nor tree grew on the soil, not even a blade of grass. Everything held the sense of taint and destruction, and a cold wind whipped around her, causing her to wrap her arms around herself and suppress a shiver. Could one be cold in a dream?

Only then did she notice the shadow that had fallen over her, and a massive crack of lightning made her jerk around in reflex.

She stilled.

Rising up behind her were the sun-bleached bones of a massive creature, spanning over one hundred feet from head to tail. Her mouth went dry as she stared at the elongated snout of the beast's skull, the curved horns that extended up and back, the razor teeth of its great maw. The years had worn away at the skeleton, pieces of rib missing, the bones of its wings collapsed to either side – Maker, what wingspan this creature must have had! There was little doubt of what she was seeing. She was staring at the skeleton of an ancient dragon.

She was several feet away, yet its size made her feel as if she were standing right next to it. She'd never seen a dragon in person, much less a skeleton of one – then again, she wasn't exactly doing so now, was she? This was a dream. She'd spent enough time in it to recognize the Fade when she was there. The whispers in the back of her mind grew stronger, and she forced them back as hard as she could. Demon or darkspawn, it didn't matter – her mind was her own and _nothing_ was going to take that from her.

The thought had barely passed through her mind before she was moving, step after step drawing her closer to the skeleton, its great size growing ever larger the closer she drew. The mass of it threatened to take her breath away. She felt drawn to it – as if there were some purpose to the skeleton that she had not yet discerned.

The air around the skeleton shifted; a translucent, silver-white form appeared, shifting and twisting until it had the appearance of a man, though one with no discernable features that she could see. A feeling of foreboding came over her as she watched the spirit extend out its hand towards the skeleton, through the bones of the rib cage, hand closing around _something_ as if to grasp it, but there was nothing there – nothing there, and yet there _should_ have been, she knew that with certainty…

And the Fade shifted.

The screaming roar of the archdemon reverberated around her, overpowering and engulfing, pain ripping through her skull as the force of it sent her to her knees. She clutched at her temples, a shudder rippling through her small frame. It didn't matter that she was in the Fade – pain was pain, and a mage could feel it just as easily as if they were in their flesh and bone body.

 _Soon_.

The word echoed in her mind, not so much spoken as sung, sounds and images giving form to concept and thought. Savagery, instinct…corruption. Death.

_We are coming._

She forced her eyes open, kneeling upon dead ground, and saw the onrushing hordes coming at her.

  
***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***   


"They're coming!" Yllia sat up with a start, a panicked look on her face, heart in her throat as she struggled to catch her bearings. One moment she'd facing down a horde of darkspawn just like the one she and Alistair had faced at the Tower of Ishal.

Now she was looking at the wide-eyed stares of several Chantry sisters and Redcliffe soldiers. She drew in a sharp breath, forcing her thoughts back into order. Dream. Fade. Right. It hadn't been real.

But it had _felt_ real.

"Good. You're awake." Morrigan's matter-of-fact tone caught her attention, and then the other mage and Leliana were was pushing their way past a couple of sisters, both of whom seemed more than happy to move away from her and let her pass. "That was quite the spectacle you made of yourself, falling from the roof of the Chantry as you did."

"I fell?" Yllia gave Morrigan a blank look.

"You exhausted your mana supply," Morrigan explained, "and passed out at the end of the battle."

"Alistair caught you," Leliana hurriedly added. Her intent was to reassure the other woman.

Reassurance was not the reaction Yllia had as Alistair's name sent her scrambling to her feet. "Where's Alistair?" she demanded, brushing off Leliana's hand as the redhead reached for her arm in alarm. "Where is he?"

"Outside with Bann Teagan," Morrigan replied with a slight raise of an eyebrow. "What is –"

She found herself cut off abruptly as Yllia pushed past the two women, nearly tripping over the hem of her robes as she rushed for the door. As she stumbled out into the rising sunlight, bringing up her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she found Alistair and Teagan standing at the top of the steps in conversation. The moment she emerged, however, Alistair's attention was quickly diverted.

"Yllia! Are you all right?" Alistair's relief was palpable as he hurried over to her, but his eyes went wide when, the moment he drew close enough, she reached out and grasped his arm.

"Darkspawn," she said urgently, her voice low as she looked up at him. "They're coming, Alistair. I…I had a dream…I _saw_ them…" She was aware of the touch of panic in her voice, drawn from the knowledge that Redcliffe could not withstand a darkspawn attack after what they had just gone through, and looked at him pleadingly.

Alistair stared at her, and then placed his hands on her shoulders in a firm grip. "Get a hold of yourself, Yllia," he said in a low tone. "There aren't any darkspawn within miles of here. I'd sense them. _You'd_ sense them. It was _just_ a dream. You've got to remember that."

She tightened her grip on his arm, staring up at him, but something about the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice finally got her to relax. Somewhat. "But it…it _felt_ real, Alistair," she insisted. "There's a horde of darkspawn on the move. Somewhere." He was right, though – wherever it was, it wasn't here. It wasn't to Redcliffe, and they couldn't do anything about it.

Her throat tightened, and his expression reflection the same pain she felt at the thought that more people were going to die and they could do nothing for it. All they could do was keep pressing forward and try to stop this Blight as fast as they could.

All they could do was sacrifice the few…to save the many.

  
***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***   


Hawke's eyes snapped open, staring up at the dark ceiling over his head, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd broken out into a sweat, but try as he might he could not recollect what it was that had driven him to awake. The barest hint of dawn was coming through the single window in the room he shared with his brother, the deep rumblings coming from Carver's bed the only sound. The house was quiet.

Careful to not make a sound, not wanting to wake his family – it was too early yet even for a farm - he drew back the heavy blanket covering him and slipped from his bed, pushing his feet into his boots. He avoided the weak spot near the bedroom door to keep the floorboards from creaking, creeping out into the front room of the house.

All at once an uneasy shiver worked its way down his spine.

Loch was on his feet, staring at the closed door, his ears pricked and the fur on the back of his neck standing straight on end. As Hawke approached behind him the mabari drew his lips back, exposing sharp teeth. Freeholders and farmers they might be, but too many generations of breeding were worked into Loch to have him forget the instincts of a war dog.

Hawke spared a glance towards the single closet where his staff and Bethany's were hidden, along with that which had once been his father's, and then placed his hand on Loch's head. "Easy," he murmured as a growl emanated from the hound. "Stay." He lifted the bar on the front door and stepped out onto the porch, his eyes sweeping the slowly-rousing village that stretched out before him. Much was quiet, only a few columns of smoke from early-morning cooking fires lifting into the air. A smile twitched onto his face as he caught sight of the small figure of the blacksmith's daughter stealing out of one house and hurriedly making pace for her own before her father rose for the day.

Another growl from Loch and that smile vanished. Uneasiness settled into Hawke's belly once more.

He moved to the edge of the porch and reached out, grasping onto the thin slats that were nailed into the wall, pulling himself up and onto the roof. He balanced on the edge, one leg hanging precariously over the side with the other was bent and resting on the roof itself.

He twisted his body, letting his eyes slowly scan the village and its surrounding areas from his vantage point. Being on the outskirts of Lothering had its benefits – less of the view was obstructed by the village itself, more of it the long stretches of farmland of the other freeholds. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary; he almost allowed himself to relax. Besides, surely Lothering's own lookouts would have alerted should anything be amiss. This close to the Wilds they had guards delegated specifically for that task.

 _But those guards aren't mages, nor do they have your instincts_ , a whispering voice murmured in the back of his mind.

Whether it was by pure luck or something drew his attention to the west he'd never know. There was no reason to do so. The Korcari Wilds were to the south – that was the direction that was the most heavily watched. That was the direction any danger was sure to come.

But he twisted his body abruptly to look west, and his heart nearly lodged itself in his throat.

There, in the distance, on the horizon, a black, shifting mass moving at a rapid clip. He didn't have to be a Grey Warden to realize what it was that he was seeing, what it was that was moving towards Lothering at a startling fast clip – from a direction no one had expected danger to come.

Hawke didn't hesitate. He brought his hand up in front of him, a fireball forming in his hand, and with a grunt of exertion threw it into the air as high and as far as he could. It exploded above Lothering, drawing the attention of the lookouts to the west, but Hawke didn't wait to see if anyone was going to sound an alarm. He swung himself down from the roof onto the porch, throwing open the door with a bang.

" _Carver!_ " he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the dwelling. He heard the startled shout of his brother being roused from a deep sleep and ignored it, throwing open the door to his mother's room. His shout hadn't woken just his brother – Leandra was already sitting up in bed, looking at her eldest son in alarm, and Bethany had just opened the door to her room.

"Garrett, what is it?" Leandra stared at her eldest son in confusion as he went to her side and grasped her arm, pulling her up and out of the bed with no explanation.

He led her out into the hall and looked at his siblings. "Bethany, get our staves and the packs. Carver, your sword. We have to go. We have to go _now_."

Bethany drew in a sharp breath and whirled to do as her brother bade. Carver stared at his brother, and his face had paled. "Is it…"

Dimly, Loch's barking nearly drowning it out, he could hear the shouts of the other villagers outside, the few templars still in Lothering barking orders. He blocked it out. There was nothing he could do for the rest of the village. Nothing he could do for the refugees who had come to Lothering to escape the horde. He had to see his family safe – if they stayed, they would die.

He reached up and grasped the silver amulet that hung around his neck. He met Carver's eyes. "Yes. Darkspawn."


	12. The Calm Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We only have to find the mage responsible for all of this, in a castle three times the size of the village itself, who may or may not be in league with a demon." - Morrigan

Despite the relief of victory over the undead, Yllia's minor panic over her nightmare and the fact that they were no closer to figuring out what the situation at Redcliffe Castle was cast a pallor over the celebration. Yllia was relieved to find that most of the villagers had made it through the last battle unscathed, including most of the militia soldiers and the people that she'd helped during the preparations, in particular a young woman named Kaitlyn whose brother she'd helped locate before the undead had attacked. The only real casualty, in fact, appeared to be the tavern keeper Lloyd, and no one was particularly saddened by his demise.

"Still thinking about your dream?" Alistair asked in a low voice as they made their way up the steep path towards the towering windmill and the bridge to the castle. He had the Green Blade slung across his back – Yllia had made certain to pay Kaitlyn and Bevin handsomely for their family heirloom, as it was by far the best sword Alistair had come across in a long while – and the soot had been wiped off of his armor. Somehow they'd _all_ managed to come out of the battle with their gear relatively intact. Leliana had even secured a decent number of arrows to replace those she'd used.

Which was good. Because Yllia had no idea what to expect when they reached the castle.

"A little," she admitted. "It just…worries me. Here I have this dream about darkspawn, and I know they're heading _somewhere_ , but the only thing I'm certain of is that they are not heading _here_. That means they're going somewhere where there aren't any Grey Wardens, and maybe not even soldiers who can fight, and I just…I keep thinking about all of those abandoned homes we keep passing."

"So do I." Alistair's expression was rather subdued, and it struck Yllia that since Ostagar none of them had had much of a chance to…to _enjoy_ themselves. The brief respite at the Hawke farm in Lothering had been exactly that – brief. There'd been banter and conversation on the way to Redcliffe, mostly between the two of them and Leliana with Rhys adding a few barks, but for the most part it had been one thing after another with little room for a breather. Very serious. Very focused.

_The next chance we get_ , she told herself, _I'm calling for a rest. Even if it's just sitting around a damn campfire and_ talking. _We can't keep going like this, Blight or no Blight_.

They reached the top of the incline, and Yllia was relieved to see that Teagan was already waiting for them, along with Ser Perth and those soldiers who had not been injured in the night's battle. The bann, she noted, was still dressed for combat. Did he intend for them to fight their way into the castle?

She darted a glance at Morrigan and saw the other mage's mouth tighten into a thin line, the same question apparently occurring to her. The sensation of magic hadn't diminished with the defeat of the undead – if anything it had grown _stronger_ , as if whoever was behind it was profoundly angered at their minions being so readily thwarted.

Yllia really didn't want to think about what sort of being would have undead _minions_.

"Warden," Teagan said in greeting, nodding to the approaching group. "Thank you again for all of your help in the battle – I hold no illusions on whether or not we would have been able to hold them back without your aid. You and your companions, frankly, saved us all."

Yllia felt herself blushing, and Alistair reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. She quickly cleared her throat. "You don't have to thank us, Bann Teagan," she said. "We did what needed to be done. I'm just glad that Redcliffe made it through without any more casualties." Alistair gave a sharp, if slightly awkward nod next to her, and Yllia heard something behind her that sounded suspiciously like Leliana trying to suppress a giggle.

Teagan smiled at their modesty. "Nevertheless, the gratitude is there." Then the bann's expression sobered. "And now we have an equally pressing situation. The castle remains out of our reach still."

Yllia nodded. "I assume you have a plan of some sort?" she asked. Maker, she hoped he had a plan. She didn't _want_ to be the one coming up with all of the plans!

Teagan started to nod – and then froze as a sudden voice cut through the still air, calling his name in a frantic tone that had every one of them on edge. Even Rhys growled, the fur on the back of his neck bristling as they turned as one towards the bridge that led to the castle.

A woman was running towards them, dressed in noble finery that looked as if running in it was a very, very bad idea and followed by an armor-clad guard. And Yllia had thought her _robes_ were tight around the legs. Maker's breath, did they give the nobility _lessons_ on how to run in those dresses and shoes? The woman had an anxious look on her face, her auburn hair piled on top of her head in a disheveled fashion, and she was calling Teagan's name as she ran towards him. Just as startling was the fact that the voice was calling out his name with a heavy Orlesian accent. An Orlesian noble, in Redcliffe? And Teyrn Loghain _wasn't_ attempting to burn the place down?

Her confusion must have shown on her face, because Alistair leaned down then and brought his mouth close to her ear. "Arlessa Isolde," he said quietly. "Arl Eamon's wife."

Yllia's eyes widened. Arl Eamon's _wife?_ Which meant she'd most certainly come from the castle – which meant people in the castle might still be _alive_. That was the first bit of true good news they'd had since arriving at Redcliffe.

"Teagan," Isolde said, sounding relieved as she slowed to stop in front of him, "thank the _Maker_ you yet live!"

Teagan stared at her in disbelief, as if he couldn't quite comprehend that she was standing there. "Isolde? You're…alive? How did you…what has _happened?_ "

Isolde shook her head, and Yllia could make out the clear anxiety in her expression. "I haven't much time," she said. "I slipped away from the castle as soon as I could, and I must return before I am missed." She bit her lip, looked distressed. "And I…I need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone."

Oh, Yllia had a bad feeling about that. She caught Morrigan looking at her from out of the corner of her eye, and the other mage gave an imperceptive nod. So she sensed it, too. There were faint traces of magic clinging to Isolde – not _coming_ from her, not _created_ by her, but as if she had been standing too close to the source of it for too long.

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at the bann. "Careful, Bann Teagan," she said quietly. "We don't know what's going on at the castle. This could be an ambush."

The arlessa spun to face them, her expression shocked. " _What?_ " she exclaimed, clearly affronted by the accusation. "I… who is this _woman_ , Teagan?" The contempt in the word 'woman' was clear, and Yllia bristled – then eased at a light touch on her back from Leliana. Right. Losing her temper now, here, was not going to help the situation.

Fortunately Teagan seemed to notice her bristling and hastened to intervene. "This is the Grey Warden Yllia Surana, Isolde," he said, his voice smooth as he sought to appease Isolde. "Were it not for her help, I would not be here. I owe her, and her companions, my life." Teagan didn't call attention to Alistair – and Alistair seemed rather content for that to remain the case.

Isolde actually had the grace to look embarrassed, turning back to Yllia and not quite looking her in the eyes. "Oh…pardon me," she said with sincere contrition. "I… would exchange pleasantries, but…considering the circumstances…"

Yllia drew in a deep breath and then released it. "I understand, Arlessa," she said with what she hoped was the appropriate amount of respect. She didn't particularly want to make an enemy out of the woman, after all. Blasted Circle upbringing and their lack of lessons on how to speak to nobility…

"Please, Isolde," Teagan implored, looking distressed. "We had no _idea_ anyone was still alive in the castle. We _must_ have some answers."

Isolde turned back to him, and there was just the faintest hint of trapped animal in her expression. "I…I know you need more of an explanation," she said, stepping closer to Teagan, "but I…I don't know what is safe to tell. Teagan, there is a terrible _evil_ within the castle. The dead waken, and haunt the living! The mage responsible was caught but _still_ it continues…and I think…" She paused, and closed her eyes, looking like she was ready to cry. "I think Connor is going mad."

Teagan looked stunned and Alistair tensed. Yllia herself felt chilled. So a mage _was_ behind this, just as she and Morrigan had theorized. But… _just_ a mage? That much she was skeptical of, especially if the mage in question had already been caught. There was a hole in Isolde's explanation somewhere.

"You must help him, Teagan," Isolde was continuing, and Yllia forced herself to remain focused. "You are his uncle, you could _reason_ with him. He will not leave the castle…I do not know what else to _do_."

"What about Arl Eamon?" Alistair asked, breaking his silence and looking at Isolde anxiously. "Does he still live?"

Isolde turned to look at him, and there was a brief moment where it appeared that she might recognize him – but didn't quite make that jump. "My husband lives, yes, but…barely. It is a grave situation, but there is nothing that can be done for him in the castle."

"And this mage that you mentioned?" Yllia pressed.

At that, Isolde's expression tightened. "Caught, as I said," she replied. "He infiltrated the castle pretending to be a servant – and then _poisoned_ my husband! _He_ is the cause of this, and yet despite being captured and subdued his spells continue." She closed her eyes and struggled to get her emotions under control. "Everything seems so hopeless now…"

Teagan had gone pale. "The king is dead…and we need my brother, now more than ever," he said. Some of the color returned to his cheeks, and he set his jaw in determination. "I will return to the castle with you, Isolde."

Her relief was tangible, as if a great weight had just been lifted off of her shoulders. "Oh, thank the Maker!" she gasped, tears in her eyes. "Bless you, Teagan. _Bless_ you."

Yllia looked at Alistair at the same time he looked at her, and both of them shared the same look. Neither of them wanted Teagan to go in there with Isolde. Probably for different reasons, but nevertheless… "Bann Teagan, I _really_ don't think this is a good idea."

Teagan turned to her and shook his head. "I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone," he assured her. " _You,_ on the other hand, have proven quite formidable." To Yllia's surprise he turned back to Isolde and said, "Isolde, could you excuse us for a moment? I must confer with the Warden in private before I return to the castle with you."

Isolde hesitated, glancing briefly at Yllia again, before nodding. "Please do not take too long," she said softly. "I will wait for you by the bridge." She turned and hurried off, and Yllia looked at Teagan expectantly.

Teagan motioned for her to follow him closer to the windmill, away from her companions and from his soldiers. Teagan angled them so that their backs were mostly towards the others, leaving them with little opportunity to be overheard. "I understand your caution," Teagan said, "but unfortunately I simply see no other way to accomplish this. I fear for my brother and for my nephew – if going with Isolde can help them, then I must do it."

Yllia reached up and brushed back her hair, tucking a bound lock behind her ear. "If you're _really_ certain, then I suppose you have no other choice," she relented. "So all right. What is it that you want us to do?"

He nodded slightly. "Here's what I propose," he said. "I go in with Isolde, and you and your companions enter the castle using a secret passage in the windmill. My signet ring will act as a key." He slid said ring off of his finger, placing it into Yllia's palm. "Perhaps I can distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?"

Yllia thought over his words for a moment, and then gave a slow nod. "All right," she agreed. "But Bann Teagan, promise me just one thing – _please_ do not take any unnecessary risks." She looked him straight in the eye. "I know she's your sister-in-law and you certainly know her better than I do – but I'm a mage, and we're dealing with magic here. I'm not convinced she's told us everything. Will you…keep that in mind?"

Teagan hesitated, and then looked at her for a lengthy moment. "…I will," he agreed at last, giving a slight nod. "Without you, there would _be_ no Redcliffe to save. I will carry your words with me, Warden."

She quirked a smile. "I don't suppose it would be too much to ask you to just call me Yllia? _Warden_ is so formal, and half the time I think you're talking to someone else."

Despite the tense situation, Teagan chuckled. "Very well then, Yllia." Then his expression sobered. "Whatever happens in there, Eamon is the priority. You must get him out. Me, Isolde, anyone else…we're expendable."

Yllia closed her hand around the signet ring and clenched her jaw. "No life is expendable, Bann Teagan," she said quietly.

"Nevertheless," Teagan replied, "this is how it must be." He glanced over his shoulder to where Isolde was waiting. "I can delay no longer. Good luck to you, Yllia."

"And you, Bann Teagan." Yllia watched as Teagan turned to join Isolde. Taking a deep breath, she let the leadership mask slip itself back into place and walked back towards her companions.

"I don't like this," Alistair said bluntly as soon as she reached them. "I don't like Bann Teagan going in there by himself. I don't want anything to happen to Connor, but…"

"We're just going to have to make sure that we get in there and catch up to them as quickly as we can," Yllia said, looking at him and then at the others. "I'd hoped we'd just be able to go in through the gate, but it looks like we're going to have to be a lot quieter than that. Bann Teagan says there's a passage that opens into the basement level of the castle through the windmill that we can take."

"Oo, a secret passage?" Leliana looked thoroughly intrigued, a bright gleam in her eye at the prospect.

"I don't know how secret it is," Yllia said with a smile at the other woman's reaction, "but it's definitely a passage. Unfortunately I have no idea what condition the passage is in, or how _big_ it is." She looked at Sten. "I'm sorry, Sten, but would you mind staying behind on this one? Ser Perth and his guards will be able to enter once we get the courtyard gates open from inside the castle and you can join them."

Sten frowned just a touch, a slight downward tug of the corners of his mouth, and then he glanced at Alistair. The Qunari was a good foot taller and held a broader width to his shoulders than the other warrior, and the hilt of his massive greatsword rose another good half a foot above _his_ head. Adding in the fact that Sten's own armor was bulkier and heavier than Alistair's, and the choice for which warrior as better suited for skulking about in secret passageways was clear. "That is acceptable," he said at last, giving a slight nod. Yllia felt a touch of relief – she was never _quite_ sure if anything she said would insult Sten's pride, honor, or beliefs.

"Good – then Alistair, Morrigan, and Leliana, you three will come with me." She shot Alistair a warning look before he could even speak – if magic was involved in all of this she was going to _need_ Morrigan, and she didn't want to hear arguments. Leliana looked pleased to be included, and Morrigan gave a brief, satisfied smirk in Alistair's direction.

Rhys let out a soft whine, gazing up at Yllia with large, liquid-brown eyes when he hadn't heard his name. Yllia dropped to one knee and ruffled her mabari's ears. "Sorry, Rhys," she apologized, "but it wouldn't be a good idea for you to go for the same reasons Sten can't. You'll stay with Sten, won't you? And come in when the others do? I'll need you then for certain."

The hound's ears perked slightly, his stub of a tail wagging slowly in response, then picking up speed. Yllia smiled and placed a kiss on his muzzle. "Good boy," she praised, rising to her feet.

She checked to make certain that she still had the signet ring and hadn't dropped it like a klutz, and then nodded. "Let's go," she said, forcing herself to sound optimistic. "This shouldn't take too long."

"Oh, no," Morrigan replied as they headed for the windmill. "We only have to find the mage responsible for all of this, in a castle three times the size of the village itself, who may or may not be in league with a demon. No, I'd say you're quite right – not long at all."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

He sat upon the stone floor in the near-dark, knees drawn up to his chest and his arms clasped tight around them, the soiled, damp fabric of his robes making them heavy on his exhausted body. He struggled to keep his eyes open as he leaned his head back against the wall. When was the last time he'd been given a meal? Not a _decent_ meal of course, he hadn't had one of those since the day he'd been thrown roughly into this cell that was barely large enough for a child, let alone a full grown man.

His body ached. Although the magebane the guards had been shoving down his throat had worn off, physically he was too weak to conjure up so much as a small healing spell to tend to the whiplashes and cuts that marred his back and chest. It had been at least a day since the guards had come to interrogate him – he wasn't sure if that meant they'd simply given up on getting information out of him, or if it meant the situation had gotten so bad that they didn't have the manpower to spare.

He felt a twinge of guilt for not knowing which option to hope for.

He closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his head on his knees. He was going to die. Of that much he was certain. If Arlessa Isolde didn't have him executed, then he'd either die of starvation or from the undead that prowled around outside of his cell. The only reason they hadn't already gotten to him, he was sure, was because of the bars that separated him from the rest of the castle.

He could hear them now, shambling around the dungeons, and he shrank further back into the shadowed corner of the cell.

What was that?

A difference in sounds – not the scrambling, growling sounds of the undead, but the clanging of metal against metal, metal against _bone_ , the sound of collapsing skeletons and… was that _magic?_ Yes – yes, he was _certain_ , the telltale sound of flames roaring and ice shattering, he'd grown up in the Circle of Magi, he'd know those sounds anywhere.

And then footsteps coming closer, moving through the halls. Not coming from the direction of the entrance into the castle, but from elsewhere, the other side. Was there a passage that way? An entrance? He didn't know of any but whoever it was had come from _somewhere_. And if they were fighting the undead that meant they probably weren't involved with _it_.

He wasn't stupid. If he didn't get up _now_ , didn't get their attention, then he'd rot away in this cell.

He didn't want to die anymore than he wanted to be made Tranquil.

With great effort he pushed himself to his feet, staggering towards the cell bars. The footsteps were about to pass by.

"Wait!" he called out, momentarily shocked at how hoarse his voice sounded. He swallowed, winced at the dry burn in his throat as he did so, and then tried again. "Wait, please! Don't leave me in here!"

The footsteps stopped for a moment. And then a figure moved in front of the cell, and he found himself staring at a petite elvhen woman, her dark hair in greater disarray than he was used to seeing, in an unfamiliar robe too large for his small frame, and a staff strapped to her back. For a moment he felt as if his heart had actually stuttered to a stop.

"…Yllia?" he whispered in disbelief.

She stared back at him, face pale and eyes wide as if she were seeing a ghost. "Jowan?"

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Alistair nearly jumped as Yllia suddenly stumbled the few feet between herself and the bars of the cell, grasping them tightly as she looked at the man who stood – or was attempting to stand – on the other side. He recognized the name the moment it fell from her lips, remembering their conversation a few nights earlier, the story behind her conscription. When she moved so did he, angling himself for a better look.

His first thought when he saw the raggedly-dressed man in the cell was that Yllia had to be mistaken. There was no way _this_ person could be a blood mage. Blood mages were supposed to be great, hulking menaces with auras of evil wrapped around them. Not…not half-starved trembling men who looked no older than Alistair himself did. Because that was _exactly_ how Jowan looked. One look at the conditions of that cell and Alistair's stomach turned – even the stables that he'd lived in for most of his childhood were better maintained than these dungeons. Possibly because they were stables, not dungeons but…oh, that wasn't the point.

"Jowan?" Yllia repeated again, shock clear in her blue eyes as she stared at him. "What are you... _Maker_ , Jowan, what are you _doing_ in there? What have they _done_ to you?" Concern filled her voice and overrode her shock, though _that_ didn't surprise Alistair. Hadn't she told him this Jowan had been like a brother to her?

But Jowan flinched at her words, looking everywhere but right at her. He didn't seem relieved to see her – he looked panicked. Trapped, even. And...yes, unless Alistair missed his guess, that was _shame_.

It was that shame that made the warrior the most apprehensive, though he couldn't quite put his finger on _why_.

He was vaguely aware of Morrigan and Leliana both moving to stand behind Yllia with him, and Jowan's eyes nervously flicking to the two women before focusing – or not-focusing – on the elf in front of him. The imprisoned mage swallowed hard. "Th-the Arlessa had me thrown in here," he said, his nervousness showing in his stammer. "She thought that I was responsible for wh-what happened with her s-son." Desperation crept into his tone. "But I'm _not_ , I _swear_ I'm not! I tried telling her that, but she didn't believe me."

"What do you mean, responsible for what happened to her _son?_ " Alistair's voice was sharper than he'd intended it to be, but the thought of something happening to _Connor_ sent a rush of alarm through him. He wasn't Isolde's biggest fan – nor she his – but he had nothing against the boy that he couldn't help but think of as an adopted brother, despite the fact that he'd never truly had the chance to get to know him. The Guerrins, all of them, were important to him. And Connor was just a _child_.

Jowan tensed at Alistair's tone and drew back slightly, and Yllia shot her warrior a cautionary look. With his height, size, and armor, Alistair supposed he had to be cutting a rather intimidating figure – particularly to anyone who was used to being around Templars on a regular basis. For the moment Alistair couldn't much bring himself to care – he was too focused on what Jowan had just said. "What happened to Connor?" he pressed, hazel eyes intent.

Jowan swallowed hard and darted a quick look at Yllia before answering. "He's…he's the one who's caused all of this," he said in a shaking voice. "The undead. The raids on the village. It was Connor – or, actually, it's the demon _possessing_ him."

"A _demon?_ " Leliana sounded appalled, and Alistair could only stare at Connor incredulously. Dimly he noted that neither Yllia nor Morrigan seemed particularly surprised, though Yllia's brow did lift slightly.

"That's impossible," Alistair said bluntly, shaking his head. "In order to be possessed by a demon you have to be a mage. Connor is…"

"A mage." Jowan cut him off, and there was a spark of defiance and determination in his eyes that hadn't been there a minute before. Those two little words floored Alistair, made his jaw snap shut as he stared at the other man.

"That's how I got here," the apostate – it was next to impossible for Alistair to think of him as maleficar – said, his eyes going back to Yllia. "Connor…he began showing signs of magic some years ago. The arlessa's been hiding it so that he doesn't get sent to the Circle, but lately it's been getting more and more difficult. She was hoping that I could teach him enough for him to be able to control it and conceal it himself, but…" Here his determination faltered, the shame and uncertainty creeping back in.

"But?" Yllia looked at him imploringly, causing him to bring his eyes back to hers.

"I…" Jowan looked at her, pained. "I didn't summon the undead, but there's a reason why the Arlessa thinks I did. Why she wants to believe it. It _is_ my fault that Connor was tempted by the demon, I opened the way for the demon to get to him, to offer him…" His thin shoulders trembled, and he bowed his head. "I've done something _terrible_ , Yllia, and I can't undo it…"

Yllia stared at Jowan for a moment, the muscles of her throat working as her eyes slowly widened. She actually took a step back from the cell. "You poisoned Arl Eamon," she said flatly, recalling Isolde's impassioned declaration when she had inquired about Eamon's health. Alistair saw the way Jowan flinched, saw the way that Yllia seemed to just…close herself off…and felt another rush of anger not only for Arl Eamon, but for the elf who stood next to him now. Alistair had to clench his hands at his sides to keep from lashing out.

"Yes," Jowan whispered, his breath catching on that single word. "That crime I _am_ guilty of."

Yllia took a deep breath, a myriad of emotions playing across her face as she struggled with her thoughts. "Tell me why," she said finally, and the simple question held so much weight and meaning in it. This wasn't simply an information gathering conversation now, Alistair realized. Yllia was preparing to judge her friend. Her _brother_.

Jowan kept his head lowered, unable to look at her. "…When I ran away from the Circle, the templars were following me," he said softly. "I managed to stay ahead of them for a while because they didn't have my phylactery, a week or so – but eventually they caught up to me. Before they could take me back to the Circle, though, a group of soldiers stopped and…and _attacked_ them. The templars were outnumbered; they didn't stand a chance." He bit his lip, a gesture which looked painful given how chapped and dry those lips were. "The soldiers, they were Teyrn Loghain's men. When they took me into custody and brought me to Denerim I thought there had to be some sort of mistake – after all, what would the _Teyrn_ possibly want with an apostate and a…" Again he cut himself off, but Alistair could fill in the blank well enough. _An apostate and a blood mage._

"Go on," Alistair said tightly. Although Jowan seemed honestly upset by what he was telling them, anything regarding Loghain had Alistair going tense. Yllia's expression was still impassive, possibly even more difficult to read, but her eyes never left that of her fellow mage's.

"I never actually met the Teyrn himself," Jowan said. "The man who spoke with me was an Arl – Arl Howe, I think, but I don't really know much when it comes to the nobility. He had orders from the Teyrn, though. He told me that…that if I infiltrated Redcliffe Castle and poisoned Arl Eamon, Teyrn Loghain would pardon me for what happened at the Circle and I could return there. They told me that Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden." Jowan blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold back tears, but he was too dehydrated to shed even one. A sob caught in his throat. "I wanted so much to go back to the Circle, back to…to Yllia, and Anders, and my _home_. But I even screwed _that_ up. By the time I realized what I'd done, what a _mistake_ I'd made…it was too late. And then everything went to the Black City and I found myself in here, unable to do anything at all. Guilty of one crime…therefore guilty of everything."

Jowan lifted his head then, and gave Yllia a pleading look. "There has to be something I can do to make this right," he said. "The Arlessa won't believe that her son's been possessed, that he's the one doing all of this – and Connor's not to blame, either. He never would have made a pact with the demon if it weren't for what I did to his father. I never meant for anything like this to happen, but _please_ – don't leave me here, Yllia."

Alistair felt his gut twist uncomfortably. When Isolde had declared the arl poisoned, he'd been prepared to condemn the person responsible. When he'd heard that a mage was behind the attacks on the village and that Connor was in danger, he'd allowed the templar training that had been drilled into his head to come forward. Yet now that he was faced with Jowan – far sooner and in far different conditions than he'd anticipated – he was full of mixed feelings. If Jowan was to be believed, then it was actually Connor himself behind the undead, and his own admitted guilt over the arl's poisoning stemmed not from true maliciousness on his part, but from desperation and manipulation. Alistair had always thought of Eamon as a father figure, despite all of the pain the man had caused him when he'd given his ward to the Chantry. The thought of him lying on a bed near death made him sick, but could he put the blame in this _mage?_ Or did the blame belong on the shoulders of the man who had put the mage in an impossible situation?

"This boy could still be of use to us," Morrigan said thoughtfully, tilting her head to one side and regarding Jowan. "But if not, then at least let him go. Why keep him prisoner here?"

"He wishes to redeem himself," Leliana interjected. "Doesn't…everyone deserve that chance? Everyone deserves the chance to redeem themselves in the Maker's eyes, this man no less than any."

Yllia hadn't said a word after Jowan's plea, her eyes fixed at some point down on the stone floor. Leliana and Morrigan had stepped back, apparently not wishing to be included in any of this unless Yllia pulled them into I herself, but Alistair remained where he stood. Next to her, his presence obvious. Not intimidating – intentionally – just _there_.

"If I let you out of this cell," Yllia said finally, lifting her head to look at the other mage, "what would you do, Jowan? Where would you go?"

Alistair started. "Yllia, you can't be thinking – he's a -!" He cut himself off when she looked at him, and somehow her quiet calm rendered him silent faster than her anger would have. He nearly had to bite his tongue to achieve it, but he did stop.

She looked back at Jowan, whose own eyes had widened at her question. "Jowan?"

"I…" The mage started, stopped, hesitated before starting again. "I…have nowhere to go. If you released me, I guess…I'd just have to run again. I could probably disappear easily enough, with all of this going on the Templars would have a hard time picking up my trail, but…"

His eyes darted to Alistair briefly.

"But," Yllia prompted.

"But I don't want to just run away with my tail tucked between my legs." The words tumbled out of Jowan's mouth in a torrent. "Please, Yllia – I'm partly responsible for this, there might be _something_ I can do. Let me come with you." He gave her an imploring look, his grey eyes wide and puppyish with his impassioned plea. "Please give me a chance."

Somehow Alistair wasn't surprised when Yllia turned to Leliana and asked her to pick the lock on the cell door. Once it was open Jowan stepped out, and from the stiff way that he moved it was clear that he not in the best of condition. He certainly didn't look like he was in any condition to cast a spell, let alone help them fight their way through.

Yllia grasped Jowan's arm as he stepped out. "Stay close to us," she said, "but if we get caught up in a battle I want you to get out of the way," she said. "No heroics because you have something to prove. Understood?"

Jowan looked at each and nodded. "I understand," he said softly.

When they started further into the dungeon Alistair hung back, no longer walking alongside Yllia. Instead he positioned himself where he could keep an eye on their unexpected companion. He wasn't going to argue with Yllia's decision – but he _was_ going to make sure that it didn't backfire on her. He'd seen the pain Yllia had been in after her nightmare; friend or not, he was not going to let Jowan put her through anything more.


	13. Darkness Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're dealing with a demon, Alistair. And not a weak one, either. I'm not taking unnecessary chances." - Yllia

It was a near-silent procession as their small group made its way through the cold dungeons. Despite Alistair's growing impatience with their slow pace, each passing moment adding to his drive and determination to cut through the rest of the undead and find the arl _now_ , Yllia was determined to keep them moving cautiously. She was all business as she led them through, sighting the undead first, her quick-casting spells the only indication to her companions that another cluster of the creatures had been spotted. She'd caught Morrigan looked at her with a touch of approval at the cold, methodical way in which she dispatched their targets; she'd also caught a couple of concerned looks sent her way by Leliana. The sweet-natured rogue was proving to be far more perceptive than Yllia had originally given her credit for.

As for their unexpected companion…

She hadn't looked at Jowan since releasing him from the cell – he, in turn, had spoken not a word. He kept to his promise, pressing himself against the wall and keeping behind the wall their bodies made whenever a skirmish arose. Keeping him out of the fray wasn't difficult; they rarely encountered groups greater than four or five. But she was constantly aware of his presence, and it played insistently at the back of her mind.

She'd thought him gone forever that moment he'd run from the Tower, as the Templar guards had closed in around her to prevent her from following. She'd thought for certain that the Templars would have caught up to him despite the loss of his phylactery, that he would have been either made Tranquil or killed outright. As a blood mage either outcome was possible, and that there might have been a third option had never crossed her mind.

He wasn't gone – he wasn't lost, and her inaction _hadn't_ gotten him killed. Although one could not conceivably say that he was _well_ , there was no mistaking that he was alive. Yllia should have felt relieved – and she _had_ when she'd first recognized Jowan in that cell, once her shock had faded and that first rush of happiness flooded into her.

Until he'd started to explain and her mind had finally made that small connection between Isolde's words and Jowan's presence. A mage, responsible for poisoning the arl, caught and accused of summoning the undead. And here was Jowan, a blood mage, locked in a dungeon cell. Once her brain overruled her heart and started force-feeding her facts, it had all been rather obvious. And it left her with a bad taste in her mouth.

Did she believe Jowan's claim that he had nothing to do with the undead? She didn't _disbelieve_ him. Save for the dragon in the room, Jowan had never been anything but honest with her in the past. They hadn't always agreed or taken the same viewpoint – he'd always been far more accepting of the Circle's ways than she – but he'd never _lied_.

That was Before, though – Before the blood magic, Before the escape, Before her Joining and the entirety of the world turning on its head. Everything was different now. Wasn't it?

"Yllia?"

The sound of her name made her jump and she stopped, turning to look at Alistair with confusion in her eyes. "What?" she asked, having the sinking suspicion that it wasn't the first time he'd said her name, and that she sounded about as confused as she felt.

Alistair looked at her with concern, and he darted a quick glance and a nod at a doorway that she'd been about to walk right past. "Unless they've done a complete remodel of the castle since I was last here," he said, "I think that's the stairway up to the first floor."

Yllia looked at the arched doorway for a moment and then blanched – he was right, there was a set of stairs heading upwards and she'd almost missed it entirely while lost in thought. She blushed lightly, then readjusted her grip on her staff and nodded. "All right, then," she said, as if she hadn't just been caught spacing out. "Let's go. _Carefully_. Alistair, can you take the lead?"

He hesitated and glanced briefly in Jowan's direction – Yllia wasn't surprised, it was clear that Alistair did not trust the other man – then nodded, and stepped forward, sword out as he assumed his proper place as the group's meatshield. Leliana fell back a little then, assuming the position of rear guard and Jowan-watcher and delegating Morrigan and Yllia into the center of the pack.

They proceeded up the stairs in this fashion, and Yllia's stomach twisted into a knot as they encountered room after room of undead with no survivors. Many of them wore the armor of the Redcliffe guard, but there were enough in tattered clothing to know of what had become of most of the servants within the castle as well. The thought that not long ago these had been living, breathing _people_ left a bitter taste in her mouth. There were reasons the First Enchanter stoutly excluded necromancy from the Circle's theory teachings, blood magic connection aside.

Then – a blessing. In one room they found a young woman huddled, dressed in the peasant's dress that identified her as a servant. Yllia had never felt such a profound relief at finding someone _alive,_ and once the woman was on her way through the path they'd cleared to the passage, she turned to her companions and gave them all a weary, relieved smile. "I was starting to think we weren't going to find _anyone_ alive in this place."

Alistair yanked off his helmet and pushed a hand through sweat-damped hair, a matching grin upon his face, and Leliana gave her a return smile of her own. "The blacksmith will be grateful to see his daughter alive, I am certain," she said. "The Maker was truly watching over her."

"'Tis more likely her common sense kicked in and she thought to take shelter in a room with a lock," Morrigan said dryly, her acerbic tone indicating just what she thought of Leliana's statement and earning a frown from the other woman. "And might I suggest we let ours do the same? Standing about here with grins on our faces will do nothing for _ending_ this. I, for one, am tiring quickly of cutting our way through walking corpses."

Alistair's grin vanished, quickly replaced by a scowl, but Yllia hurried to intercede. "Morrigan's right, we don't have time to stand around like this," she said quickly, though not even the other mage could dampen her relief.

"The main hall isn't much further from here," Jowan said softly, speaking up for the first time since they'd left his cell behind. "That's…probably where they are."

Yllia glanced at Alistair, who nodded in confirmation – his memory of the castle's layout matched what Jowan was saying. "Okay," she said. "From here on we proceed with _extra_ caution. If…if Jowan is right, and Connor _has_ been possessed by a demon, then we could be in for a tricky, _dangerous_ situation." She looked at Morrigan, who gave an imperceptive nod.

"I have…never encountered a demon before," Leliana said truthfully, a hint of nervousness in her words. "There are many types, no?"

A memory rose up in the back of her mind of a massive form rising up from the body of a man, towering over her, calling to her and tempting her and... _No!_ Yllia shoved the memory back with a fierce mental snarl, a shudder rippling through her at the same time that she tried to suppress.

She looked at Leliana. "There are five known types of demons," she confirmed. "The weakest is Rage, and then it moves on up until it reaches the top, Pride. When a mage is possessed by a demon they become an abomination, and each type of abomination differs depending on the demon. That's what the Circle teaches, at the very least."

"'Tis consistent with Mother's teachings as well," Morrigan said, inclining her head slightly. "The demons share the traits of the darker virtues of the human mind, and will exploit them without hesitation given half a chance. You." She fixed her golden-eyed gaze on Jowan. "Which demon is it that has possessed this child?"

Jowan looked startled at being addressed directly by Morrigan, and Yllia felt a slight aching pang in her chest. If it were a different situation, she could imagine trading looks with Jowan, finding out his opinions regarding the other apostate, laughing and sharing grins over their thoughts…

"I'm not sure," Jowan said hesitantly. "I was present when it possessed him, but I've never actually _seen_ a demon before."

"You haven't seen a demon before, but you're a blood mage?" Alistair asked with incredulity. "I thought that's _how_ mages learned blood magic, by learning from demons."

Jowan's cheeks reddened and he actually looked a touch indignant as he replied, " _Or_ they learn from books hidden away in the restricted section of the Circle library. Like I did."

Alistair opened his mouth to reply, and stopped when Yllia put her hand firmly on the center of his breastplate. "No," she said firmly, shaking her head at him firmly. "We are not getting off on a tangent. Not with a demon around…there are books on blood magic in the restricted section of the Circle?" Jowan's words suddenly registered, and her eyes widened.

"Yllia…" Alistair's indignation smoothed into wry amusement.

"Right. Tangent." Yllia dropped her hand and turned back to Jowan, still not-quite looking straight _at_ him. More like at his…chin. Easier to look at than his eyes, and not so difficult for her to pull off if she just looked directly ahead. Height-wise she only _just_ reached his chin anyway. "Okay, so we don't know what sort of demon has actually possessed Connor, which makes this a little more difficult but not impossible. I'll enter first…the rest of you, stay back and behind me."

Alistair looked wary. "Wouldn't it be better for me to go first, if we'll be fighting it?"

"Yes – if we _were_ fighting it." Yllia looked back at him. "I want to try and avoid that until I know what we're dealing with." As his skepticism, she lowered her voice. "If the demon _is_ possessing Connor, and we fight it in his body… killing the demon means killing the boy, Alistair. I think we both agree we want to avoid that, don't you?"

Alistair paled slightly, and he nodded fervently. "Then let me take point," she continued, "and we'll try to figure out just what it is that we're dealing with. If Connor's not an abomination yet, if the demon hasn't taken full control, there may still be something that we can do. But I have to see how bad it is first."

"Then let us get going rather than stand around chattering away like a flock of magpies," Morrigan said, resting her hand on one ample hip as she cast a pointed look at Yllia – who, the elf supposed, Morrigan was naming as Chief Magpie.

Yllia nodded, then unstrapped her staff and held it in front of her rather than leave it at her back until she needed it. Leliana tilted her head to one side. "If you enter armed, will it not make the demon defensive?"

"Less likely if it sees I'm a mage," Yllia explained as they headed for the main hall at Alistair's direction. "Demons tend to look at mages and see dinner, not threat. I'm hoping to not give it a chance to realize it's mistaken." Was her tone just a tad chillier than normal then? Most likely, given the way that Alistair cast a quick glance in her direction. If they came out of this in one piece, she had a feeling she was going to be giving her fellow Warden another one of her life-story conversations. Maybe she'd find a way to postpone this one.

They reached the massive wooden doors that led into the main hall, and dimly voices could be heard coming from the other side. Voices and…laughter? Clapping?

…No, that wasn't creepy at all.

Bracing herself, Yllia pushed open the door and stepped into the spider's parlor.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Of all the things Yllia had expected to find inside the main hall…Bann Teagan cavorting around the room like a sugar-hyped lunatic was not one of them. It matched the sounds they'd heard, at least, but it was still a disturbing sight to see. Judging from the shocked mutter from Alistair behind her, she wasn't the only one who thought so.

Yllia took a deep breath, and then motioned for the others to follow her, stepping further into the room. And she approached the raised dais, Teagan stopped his crazed gesturing, and the young boy standing next to a distraught and forlorn Isolde stepped forward. Was that a look of contempt and disdain upon his face? Oh, yes. _Not a Rage Demon, then, they don't waste time with idle fancy. Not a Sloth, either, they don't waste time with anything._

Damn. Rage and Sloth were the weakest – she'd _really_ been hoping.

"So these are our visitors," Connor – for he couldn't be anyone else – sneered as he looked down upon them from the elevated platform. "The ones you told me about, Mother?"

A shiver rippled through Yllia, not only because of the demonic reverberation in the boy's voice, but because of the subservient, meek affirmative that Isolde gave, so different from the indignation she'd shown outside the castle. _Fear. She's afraid._ That didn't make Yllia feel any better.

"And this is the one who defeated my soldiers? The ones I sent to reclaim my village?"

Isolde flinched, and didn't quite look at him. "Yes…"

"And now it's staring at me. What is it, Mother? I can't see it well enough."

"By the Maker," Yllia heard Leliana whisper behind her. The temperature seemed to drop rapidly in the room every time Connor spoke, as if the very voice of possession was causing it to shift. She spared a quick glance at Alistair, but the warrior was standing stiffly off to her right, unmoving and unspeaking, just staring at Connor with eyes gone wide. She couldn't blame him. Unless they'd seen it before, no one could _prepare_ for demonic possession.

"It…it is just an elf, Connor," Isolde stammered. "Like the s-servants in the castle…"

"Oh, I remember!" Connor exclaimed with far too much glee. "I had their ears cut off and fed to the dogs! The dogs chewed for hours! Shall I send it to the kennels, Mother?"

Yllia could feel the blood draining from her face as she listened to the depraved words, and then just as quickly she flushed with fury. _One way or another, this demon is going_ down, she thought fiercely, blue eyes narrowing. She tightened her grip around her staff as she listened to Isolde beg her son to not hurt anyone, her temper beginning to flare up – and then was just as quickly dashed, as Connor's voice _changed_.

"M-Mother? What…what's happening? Where am I?"

There was no reverberation, no indication of the demonic presence, and Yllia's eyes went wide. Anyone lost to a demon would never be able to wrest control back for themselves – that Connor _had_ meant that not only was he a mage of incredible potential, but he was also _still within his own mind._ Trapped, perhaps, and no doubt terrified – but _there._ The demon had not managed a full possession!

The momentary lapse was gone a second later, the demon taking control once more, snarling and lashing out at Isolde in anger as she attempted to reach out to her son. Isolde stumbled back, her eyes wide with terror and despair – how many times had these lapses occurred, building up her hopes, only to have them so ferociously dashed?

"Arlessa, stay back from him!" Yllia said sharply, seeing Isolde begin to reach out to Connor once more. Isolde was closer to Connor than she was, and the last thing Yllia wanted was to be unable to intervene before he ripped his mother apart in a fit of fury.

Isolde looked at Yllia tearfully, but actually did as she commanded. "Grey Warden…please. Please don't hurt my son! He's not responsible for what he does!"

"I know," Yllia replied, her eyes firmly locked upon Connor. "Your son isn't responsible for what's happened, Isolde – but this _isn't_ your son."

A sob tore from Isolde's throat. "He didn't mean to do this!" she said as if she hadn't heard Yllia at all. "It was that mage – the one who poisoned Eamon! He started all of this! He summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!"

Yllia was glad that Jowan was more or less hidden behind Alistair at the moment – whether he was guilty of summoning the demon or not (and Yllia was wagering heavily on the side of _not_ ), she doubted the sight of him would do anything for Isolde's current state of mind.

"So he made a deal with the demon to do so?" Morrigan said scornfully from Yllia's left. "Foolish child."

_Thank you, Morrigan. Please, antagonize the demon._

" _It was a fair deal!_ " Connor roared furiously, the force behind it enough to make Alistair twitch and reach for his sword, though he stopped himself from fully drawing it. Yllia shot Morrigan a quick warning look, hoping she'd take the hint and _not_ ignore it.

But the possessed boy seemed far more interested in talking at the moment than tearing them to bits, rambling on in his anger. "Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it's _my_ turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!"

_I think I'm starting to get the picture here_ , Yllia realized as she listened to Connor's words. _So Jowan poisoned Eamon and Connor wanted to save his father…somehow the demon found a way through the Veil to him, and offered him his desire in exchange for possession of his body. Connor's young and untrained, so he probably had no idea what price he was paying…_ Her thoughts screeched to a halt.

Desire.

Oh, by the Black City. A _Desire_ demon?

_Well, look at it this way, Yllia. At least it isn't Pride._

It took Yllia a moment to realize that Connor was addressing her again, after being momentarily distracted by the enthralled Teagan. "Well?" Connor demanded when she didn't immediately respond to his first demand. "What have you _come_ here for?"

Not in the mood to play word games, Yllia opted for the most direct response to the question. She squared her shoulders and looked up at him steadily. "I came to stop you."

The words made Connor's eyes flash, and Yllia could practically taste the increase in foul magic upon her tongue. "I'm not finished playing!" he growled. "You can't make me stop! I think it's trying to spoil my fun, Mother!"

"I…I don't think…"

He cut Isolde off before she could manage to finish her sentence. "Of course you don't. Ever since you sent the knights away, you do nothing but deprive me of my fun! Frankly, it's getting _dull_. I crave excitement, and action! This woman spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village, and now she'll repay me!"

As the soldiers rushed in from the other doors, Yllia let out a curse and spun to face them - just barely catching movement from Teagan out of the corner of her eye. She sounded another curse as she managed to block his first strike, then hit him with a knockback spell in an attempt to get him down and out of the fray. She _really_ didn't want to kill the man if she could help it. She didn't want to kill _any_ of them – none of their sudden attackers were undead.

"Knock them out!" she shouted over her shoulder. "Avoid killing them if you can!"

The order turned out to be easier than she expected – though numerous, the demon's thralls managed to go down fast enough, and to Yllia's relief none of them had suffered any mortal injury.

When the last of the guards had fallen upon the ground (and disarmed and restrained for good measure), Yllia cast a look around for any sign of Connor – but the boy had run from the room in the commotion. He was definitely still in the castle, however – Yllia could sense the demon's magic like a heavy fog.

"Teagan! Teagan, are you all right?" Isolde was panicked as she hurried to Teagan's side and grasped his arm, helping him to his feet.

Teagan let out a groan and shook his head as though to clear it. "I am…better now, I think," he said, sounding a little dazed but otherwise sane, but to Yllia's relief. "My mind is my own again."

"I'm glad to see that, Bann Teagan," Yllia said, giving him a strained smile. "You had me worried there for a moment."

"You're certain you're all right?" Alistair asked as he came to stand beside Yllia, and there was no mistaking _his_ worry. Not that she could blame him, given everything.

Teagan looked at him wearily, and nodded. "As certain as I _can_ be, given the circumstances," he said. He pushed his hands through his hair, the single braid that tucked away against the side of his dislodging and hanging loose. The chilling echo of Connor's voice mingling with the demon's still hung over the room despite the boy having made a run for the upper floors, and both Teagan and Isolde looked distraught at the heavy revelation of what had happened to the child.

"What do we do now?" the young bann asked helplessly, his expression pained as he looked at Yllia and Alistair. "Connor… is there _nothing_ that can be done for him?"

"Please." Isolde looked at the elvhen mage pleadingly, all the disdain and wariness she'd held for the other woman gone in her desperation. "Save my son. I…I could not bear it if nothing could be done…"

"Never mind that you're the reason this happened in the first place," Yllia heard Alistair mutter under his breath. It was clear that Teagan heard him from the way he tensed, but Isolde was too caught up in her distress. Yllia discreetly pressed her heel down on the toe of Alistair's boot, which sadly had a lot less of an effect than she'd hoped given the strength of the steel that covered his foot. It did earn her a startled look from the warrior, at least.

Yllia bit her lip. Then, instead of answering Isolde and Teagan, she turned to look at the others. "Leliana, can you go to the courtyard and let Sten and Rhys in? It should be secure enough." She had a feeling she was going to need everyone on hand for this.

"Of course," Leliana said with a nod, turning and hurrying to do just that. Yllia's eyes met Morrigan's for a moment, and then Jowan's. She turned back to address Isolde and Teagan.

"I'm not going to lie to either of you," she said bluntly, shaking her head. "Demon possession is probably _the_ most serious condition that can affect a mage – the Chantry doesn't make that part up." A pained sound caught somewhere between choked sob and soft keen came from Isolde. " _However_ ," she stressed the word to keep the Arlessa from having a potential breakdown, "Connor doesn't appear to be _fully_ possessed yet. There may still be a way to save him."

"How?" Teagan and Alistair spoke in unison, both of them looking at her with full attention. Isolde had gone silent, but from the way she clasped her hands in front of her and the large, doe-eyed expression she wore Yllia was certain she was also hanging on to every word.

"As long as the demon remains inside of Connor, trying to kill it will result in his death," Yllia replied, biting her lower lip as she dredged up long forgotten demonology lessons. Really, the Circle didn't spend nearly enough attention on teaching their mages anything about the very creatures they were supposed to be protecting them from. "We have to draw the demon _out_ of Connor somehow, and slay it while they're separated." She hesitated, and her eyes went to Alistair. "The only problem is, I'm not sure how to go about separating them. The only accounts I've read of demons giving up possession involved transferring over to another mage."

"So we would need to find a mage that the demon would be willing to transfer itself into?" Isolde asked, the words tumbling from her mouth, and it was only the fact that Yllia knew the Arlessa was frantic with worry for her son (and Alistair's hand on her arm) that kept her from biting her head off. As it was she only just barely managed to keep the ice out of his voice when she answered Isolde.

"We _have_ three mages that the demon would no doubt be happy to consider," Yllia replied curtly, "but all that would result in would be the same situation with the added complication of the demon having access to stronger magic." She glared at Isolde, not-so-diplomatically stating with her eyes that she wasn't about to volunteer herself or any of her friends for the task.

She was glad to see that Teagan looked just as displeased with the idea, though it was displeasure mixed with sorrow. "It's impossible, then," he said heavily. "If the price is that heavy to pay, then we daren't consider it…and we have so little time for both my brother and Connor both."

"There…there _is_ another option." The hesitant tone of Jowan's voice drew everyone's attention to the other mage. Since entering the main hall he'd practically become a shadow, hiding behind their group, keeping absolutely quiet. Given that the person who had thrown him into the dungeon in the first place was in the room, Yllia hadn't been surprised.

Now she was, and it showed as Jowan stepped out from behind Morrigan and Leliana, who had quietly returned with the rest of their companions. He was nervous, hands clasped in front of his body and fingers fidgeting, but his steps didn't falter as he made his way to the front of the room where they stood.

" _You?_ " A myriad of emotions danced across Isolde's face – shock, horror, and fury, all mixing and mingling as her face turned an interesting shade of purple that Yllia hadn't realized human skin could achieve. "What are _you_ doing here? Who let you out of the dungeon?" Her rage startled Teagan, but the man had the foresight to grab her arm as she took a step forward. Perhaps it was the way that Jowan cringed under her fury – perhaps it was the way Yllia shifted her position so that she was half-standing in front of Jowan.

Yllia leveled her gaze on the Arlessa. " _I_ freed him," she said pointedly.

Isolde looked at her, incensed. "How _dare_ you!" she exclaimed. "What makes you believe that you have the right to free one of my prisoners? Grey Warden you may be, but in my husband's absence the house of Redcliffe falls into my care, and I will not have you tread all over it as though that means nothing!"

Yllia's already thin patience with Isolde was now hanging on by the barest of threads. She stood a slow, deliberate step forward, drew herself up to her full height, and gave the other woman a challenging look. "Your dungeons were overrun by undead. Cell or not, if I'd left him down there they would have found a way to get at him eventually – if he didn't _starve_ in the meantime! Lecture me all you want, but I'd do it again in a heartbeat if I had to.

Isolde's eyes flashed, and she pointed an indignant finger in Jowan's direction. " _He_ is the reason all of this has happened in the first place!" she exclaimed. " _He_ is the reason my son…my husband… this is all _his_ fault, regardless of whether or not he summoned those monsters!"

" _He_ ," Yllia countered icily, "happens to be a friend of mine, and I suggest you remember that – unless you'd rather I just turn and walk out of Redcliffe right now, leaving your son in the hands of the demon and your husband on his death bed?"

The silence and tension in the room grew so thick it could have been cut through with a sword, but Yllia didn't waver. Unblinkingly she held Isolde's gaze, until at last the taller woman lowered her arm and allowed Teagan to guide her back a step or two.

Jowan stared at Yllia with wide, shocked eyes as she turned her back on Isolde and focused on him. "Jowan, you were saying?" She gave him a smile, and in response his shoulders became a little less hunched, his expression a touch more confident. He hadn't expected her to stand up for him so firmly; truth be told, she hadn't expected to do so, either.

He took a deep breath. "Slaying the demon without killing Connor would be difficult on the physical plane," Jowan said, speaking more to Yllia than to anyone else, "but if we could slay the demon in the _Fade_ , and it hasn't already taken full possession of his mind, we might be able to do it without harming him. I know of a…spell. I…loathe offering it. It would send a mage into the part of the Fade that Connor's mind is connected, where the demon is most likely dwelling."

His pause before the word 'spell' rang alarm bells within Yllia, and she asked the appropriate question even while knowing that she was _not_ going to like the answer. "What _kind_ of spell is this, Jowan?"

"Well…" Here came another one of Jowan's hesitations, "it's a rather average Fade spell…but it's one that requires a lot of power. Several pounds of lyrium worth."

"Oh, well then," Morrigan said with a roll of her eyes. "Just permit us to reach into our packs and retrieve the several pounds of a rather rare mineral source that everyone knows is monitored oh-so-very closely by the Chantry and difficult to get a hold elsewhere."

She'd echoed Yllia's thoughts, though with far more sarcasm, and Yllia crossed her arms over her chest with a frown. "Morrigan has a point – where would we get that sort of amplification? We don't _have_ that much lyrium, just what we've managed to scrape together from battles." And several raw material components, but she was terrible at herbalism and always had been. She had no patience for it, preferring the fine art of blowing things up with fire. Jowan _was_ rather skilled at the herbcraft, but she doubted they had enough materials for him to make the necessary batch in the amount of time they had.

"I know," Jowan said softly, and Yllia recognized that tone – he was about to tell her something she was _not going to like_. "But there's another source of power that we can use _other_ than lyrium."

_Andraste's_ flaming _knicker-weasals!_ "Blood magic?" she demanded, her voice pitching just a bit higher than it ought to have. " _Tell_ me you aren't about to suggest it!"

From the apologetic look on his face it was clear he was about to do precisely that. "Blood can provide the same amount of power that lyrium could," Jowan said, gesturing helplessly with his hands. "But in order to match the amount we'll _need_ , it would require a lot of a person's life energy." He dropped his eyes slightly from her gaze. "…All of it, in fact."

"You're suggesting we use a _human sacrifice?_ " Alistair exclaimed, suddenly livid as he realized what Yllia had already figured out.

"Short of taking the time to go to the Circle and try to get them to give up some of their lyrium supply, there's _no_ other way to get the power," Jowan insisted, looking very much like he did _not_ want to be facing off against Alistair, yet to his credit held his ground. It only made the contrast between the two men more obvious – Alistair, tall, broad-shouldered and muscled, clad from head to toe in armor, and Jowan, who had lost so much weight that in his flea-bitten, tattered robes he looked like a child playing dress-up.

Alistair's face reddened as he readied himself for a good and vocal argument - one that would probably be loud enough for the _demon_ to hear – when Isolde's voice suddenly, shockingly, cut him off.

"I will do it," she said, her earlier anger and indignation over Jowan's presence gone as if it had never existed. She pulled away from Teagan, her eyes locked on the dark-haired mage. "If it is to save my son, _I_ will make that sacrifice willingly."

"Isolde!" Teagan exclaimed with shock that matched Alistair and Jowan's expressions both. "What are you doing?"

Isolde looked at Teagan, her eyes shimmering with wet, unshed tears. "I am doing what I must to save my son's life," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Connor is my only child, Teagan. I am his _mother_. If there is anything that I can do…even this I will do, if it means giving him a chance to live." She turned away from him, back towards Jowan. "It is my decision – no one else's."

"I'm going to disagree with you on that, Arlessa Isolde," Yllia interrupted. She'd been standing to the side since Jowan's announcement, going over her thoughts as the others carried on. Alistair's outburst had given her a few much needed seconds to mull over the situation without anyone trying to talk to and interrupt her. When she had Isolde's attention, she continued. "It's not just your decision. I'm not the sort of person who would readily agree to someone sacrificing their life if there are other avenues that can be explored. As Jowan said, blood magic is only an alternative – lyrium will do the trick as well."

"But…but if the only lyrium to be found is at in the hands of the Circle…" Isolde looked anxious. She didn't _want_ to die, Yllia could see that easily – but she wouldn't let herself do anything less than everything she could in order to save her child.

"It just so happens that as much as I'm a Grey Warden, I'm also a Harrowed Mage of the Circle," Yllia said. "Kinloch Hold is only, what…a day's travel from here?" She glanced at Alistair, who gave a slight nod of his head. Good. She and Duncan hadn't passed through Redcliffe on their way to Ostagar, she really didn't have the faintest idea.

"We can afford a day or two," Yllia replied. "If Connor – the real Connor – has managed to hold at bay this long, it stands a good chance that he can hold it back a couple more days."

"But we don't _know_ that for sure," Teagan countered anxiously. "And what if the demon unleashes another horde of undead? I don't want to condone the use of this blood magic, but if it is the only chance we have…"

"I _am_ willing to do this, Warden," Isolde said, a pleading, desperate note in her voice.

Yllia reached out and touched Isolde's hand, and there was no disdain from the gesture in the other woman. Whatever issues and anger there had been before, they paled before danger to her own child's safety.

"I know," Yllia said simply. "Which is why if there's even a _chance_ that we can succeed without risking your life, we need to take it. I may not be a mother, but I _am_ a daughter – and I can imagine how Connor would feel if he came out of this and found you gone. So we're going to do what we can to keep that from happening. All right?"

There was a flicker of understanding in Isolde's eyes, and Yllia gave a mental sigh of relief when the other woman nodded quietly. "Okay," Yllia said with a nod, signaling to Teagan with her eyes to take charge of Isolde for the time being. "Alistair, Jowan, come with me." Expecting both men to do so, she headed over to where the others were waiting.

"So we are going to the Circle of Magi?" Leliana inquired when they were gathered in a corner of the hall. She glanced over to where Teagan was quietly attempting to console and distract Isolde.

Yllia nodded. "I don't want to take more drastic measures unless our other options are exhausted," she said, "and as long as we have a chance of letting both Connor and Isolde come out of this intact, I want to try and take it."

"You are certain, then, that the boy can still be saved?" Morrigan asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, _are_ you certain?" Alistair asked anxiously.

"You all saw it – briefly, Connor was able to regain control," Yllia reminded them, looking at Morrigan first and then to Jowan, who gave a slight nod of agreement. "I'm willing to bet on the fact that if we can just get at the demon where _it_ lives, we can spare Connor's life." She looked at Alistair. "I wouldn't take this risk if I didn't think there was a good chance of succeeding."

The depth of emotion in Alistair's hazel eyes made Yllia want to blush – she was _not_ used to anyone looking at her with such a profound amount of relief and gratitude, and she hadn't prepared herself for it from Alistair. Leliana gave Alistair an odd, sidelong glance, but Yllia just returned Alistair's smile as calmly as she could. She'd forgotten for a moment that she was the only one who knew that Arl Eamon and his family were the closest Alistair had to actual relatives.

"This is foolishness," Sten objected crisply, fixing his gaze on Yllia without a glance to anyone else. "To spend such time traveling on a hunch when there are far more expedient options will simply give the darkspawn more time to increase their advantage. Slay the demon here, now, and draft the help of the remaining humans."

Leliana looked at him, aghast. "You would have us kill a child when there may be a chance to help him?" she hissed, her cheeks flushing with anger.

"The child is _bas saarebas_ ," Sten said with cold certainty, and although none of them had the translation for the word there was enough harsh inflection in it to make Yllia bristle. "His fate is neither uncommon nor unexpected. The woman flaunted the laws in an attempt to keep him free and now willingly offers herself as a solution to the problem – death of the child or death of the woman, either is expedient. This foray you propose is not."

"I'm not going to sacrifice either Connor or Isolde for the sake of _expediency_ ," Yllia hissed, her blue eyes flashing as she countered the Qunari's statement. "If you have a problem with that, Sten, you don't have to be here." She put just enough challenge in her words to give credence to the threat – as useful as Sten's skill and strength were, it was _more_ useful for her to have a warrior that she could count on at her back.

He looked at her for a moment, and then gave a brief nod. As usual, his expression was impossible to read. "As you say," he said gravely, and made no move to leave. Yllia just hoped that meant the end of the arguments, at least over _this_ matter. She had enough to deal with without having to placate a Qunari warrior. She held his eyes for a moment longer before looking back to the others.

"I want most of you to come with me," Yllia said. "Jowan, you need to stay here – and not just for the obvious reason that you going to the Circle is a bad idea."

A nervous flicker appeared in his eyes, and he nodded fervently. "I can help keep an eye on the situation here," he agreed.

Yllia nodded. "And for that reason – Morrigan, I need you to stay here, too."

Morrigan looked at her in surprise. "What?" she asked. "Why? Not that I am in any _particular_ hurry to visit your Circle, but surely I can be more useful in a role other than baby-sitter."

"Hey…!"

"You're not Jowan's baby-sitter, Morrigan," Yllia cut in to placate her and stop Jowan's protest before it got started. "You're our insurance. We don't know for certain that the demon controlling Connor won't make a move before we get back from the Circle, so there's a chance we may have to do Jowan's ritual without the lyrium. Since he can't go into the Fade himself, you're going to have to do it, Morrigan."

"Yllia!" Alistair looked at her in alarm, no longer quite as relieved as he'd been just moments earlier.

She gave him a sharp look. "We're dealing with a demon, Alistair," she said. "And not a weak one, either. I'm not taking unnecessary chances. Jowan, Morrigan, use your judgment."

Morrigan nodded in grim understanding. "Will it only be the two of us, then?" she asked.

"Yes – I want everyone else with me – yes, Rhys, even you." she added when her mabari's ears perked hopefully. She smiled and stroked the top of his head, but the gesture was strained. "I want to head out as soon as we can get more provisions. Any objections?"

Her only responses were head shakes and worried glances, and she couldn't blame any of them in the slightest. This wasn't a good situation. Even non-mages understood the severity of dealing with demons, for no matter how much the Chantry hyped up the danger of mages themselves, possession was nothing to scoff at. There was every chance that even if they enlisted the help of the Circle, they might be too late. And even if they were able to save Connor, what would happen to him after that…

No. Best not to think too long on that. First she had to save the young mage. Then…then she would worry about what to do after that.


	14. Unorthodox Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The nice templar has been convinced to postpone his hunt for illegal mages. So let's not dwell upon it, shall we?" - Bethany

The elf stood at the side of the ship, resting his arms on the wooden railing and staring out at the blue-gray waters of the Waking Sea. The coastline of the Free Marches were just barely visible through the early morning haze, though _where_ along the coast they were, Zevran wouldn't have been able to say. He was no sailor. The number of times he'd occasioned to take passage on a boat were few and far between, having spent the majority of years within the borders of Antiva, occasioning into Rivain and the Marches when the occasion presented itself, but rarely beyond.

He could see nothing of Ferelden, the distant country still too far to be sighted from their current position. It was out there, though; he could feel it on the horizon, a thick, suppressing blanket of apprehension, an unknown land wrapped up in years of strife and turmoil. Word of their king's death had reached Antiva, of course – political upheaval was of great interest to the guilds, for it could present business opportunities at the drop at a hat.

As this one had.

He had to admit that, underlying his personal reasons for accepting this job, a part of him sparked with curiosity over what sort of man would require the death of _Grey Wardens_ to solidify his political powerbase. He was fairly certain that this was not a man he was going to _like_ by any stretch of the word, but then, it wasn't as if he needed to like him. He would simply accept the job and do what was required to succeed.

Or he would not.

He looked straight down over the railing, watching the point where the ship's hull cut through the waves. It would be easy here; he could solve the entire problem before even reaching Ferelden. The further south they got, the colder the waters became. All he would have to do was not…

No.

She deserved a better resolution than that.

A pair of deeply tanned arms draped themselves around his shoulders, followed by a pair of incredibly large, soft breasts encased in thin cloth pressing against his back. "You," a sultry voice purred in his ear, "look as if you are thinking very, very deep thoughts, my friend."

The melancholy vanished from his face, Zevran letting out a throaty laugh of amusement as a grin spread across his face. "Perhaps," he said, "though I will not bore you with them. After all, I doubt very much that it is my _thoughts_ you are in interested in, Isabela. Or would it be more accurate to call you _Captain_ Isabela?"

"Oh, you can call me whatever you want," Isabela purred, her lips brushing against his ear before she pulled back and released him, her tangy scent still hovering in the air like a cloud. He'd known she was coming by that scent before she'd even laid her hands on him; he had not drawn on her for that reason, though he knew well her _own_ skill with a dagger's blade. " _I'm_ certainly not opposed to any creativity."

Zevran shook his head, blonde hair swishing around his shoulders as he turned to face her. "When are you ever?" he asked with a smile. "Though is the captain's place not at the wheel of the ship? _The Siren's Call_ is a thing of beauty, but even she cannot steer herself, I am certain."

Isabela shrugged one shoulder, tossing her long, dark hair over it. "That's what I've got crew for – I'll take over if I need to. I couldn't help but notice the rather pensive look on the face of my favorite elf and thought I ought to come see what I could do about it."

"Me, pensive?" Zevran flashed a broad grin. "My dear Isabela, you should know well that I am never _pensive_. Scheming, plotting, contriving, yes – never pensive. I was merely admiring the scenery."

Isabela arched an eyebrow. "Yes, because you've always been a grand connoisseur of endless expanses of ocean and fog-hidden cliffs," she said with clear skepticism. But she didn't push; she knew better. When Zevran deflected questions, it was best to simply let it drop and attempt another strike later – he wielded words as deftly as daggers.

She moved to stand at the rail with him, hips swaying as she moved, resting one hand lightly on the wood. It was a marvel to see how steady Isabela's footing could be when the ship's deck rolled and bucked beneath them – even on a day like today, when the waters were mostly calm, the sail was not entirely smooth and yet she navigated it as easily as if they were on solid ground. Here upon the seas Isabela was a queen, and the _Siren's Call_ her castle.

"We should be reaching Ferelden in three, four days time," she mused, "weather willing. I'm not sure how long we'll be staying in port – originally I was planning on heading south along the coast after Amaranthine to Gwaren, but with all the rumors flying around about darkspawn to the south, I'm thinking I'll have to skip that leg this time around. If you'd like, I can save you a spot on board." She cast him an inquisitive look.

He merely smiled. "We shall see," he replied with a light shrug of his own. "I do not know how long it will take me to see to my business in Ferelden, and you should not feel obligated to assist me more than necessary."

"Who's feeling any obligations?" she teased. "I'm just thinking about the advantage I'll have over the rest of the crew with a bed warmer on the cold nights."

"Ah, Isabela – you know what they say about assumptions," Zevran chuckled, his eyes dancing with mirth. "But as a rule I try never to promise something I cannot deliver, and so sadly I must refrain from doing so. You understand, yes?"

"Well, I suppose." She gave him a pout, but it soon smoothed into a smile. "I suppose you can't tell me what it is you're going to Ferelden _for_ , then?" She fully expected to receive another flippant response – she knew he would never tell her the details of any of his jobs, and it was naïve to assume he'd leave Antiva for any other reason. She knew enough about the Crows to know that being one meant dedicating your life to it; Crows did not simply take holiday.

But to the Rivaini pirate's surprise, no words of humor or wit came from the blonde elf. Instead he fixed his eyes straight ahead once more, his expression uncharacteristically serious. Isabela had the sense that what he was seeing wasn't really the water out before him, but something unseen by anyone or anything but his own mind. "What am I going to Ferelden for?" he repeated, his voice quiet. "Redemption…or, perhaps, retribution."

It was such an odd response coming from one who was normally carefree that Isabela realized she had no response. No witty counter, no unabashed innuendo to bring the conversation back to grins and laughter. _Andraste's tits, Zevran_ , Isabela thought, staring at him, _what in the Black City happened to you?_

A shout from behind her interrupted the silence that had risen up between the two of them as her first mate called for her attention, and she cursed colorfully under her breath. "I swear, not one of them can do a damn thing around here without me baby-sitting them," she griped, resting her hands on her hips. " _Men._ "

In the blink of an eye Zevran's mask was back in place, the melancholy look in his eyes vanishing as he let out a chuckle. Throwing her a wink he replied, "You had better go see what it is they want, _amica mio_ , before they come to you in force and drag you back to your duties."

"I'd like to see them _try_ ," Isabela muttered with a shake of her head. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. For a moment she had the compelling urge to stay a moment longer, to ask Zevran what that response had been about…but she didn't. That wasn't her way. She never pried into anyone else's secrets, and in exchange they never pried into hers. And she liked it that way.

So instead she gave Zevran her most flirtatious smile, the one that made the knees of men twice her age tremble, and cocked her hips in an alluring fashion. "If you find yourself wanting some company for supper tonight, the captain's quarters are always open. And they're a scant more comfortable than down in the hold."

"Of that, I am most certain," Zevran replied easily. "And I just may take you up on that very enticing offer." His gaze shifted to a point over her shoulder. "Ah, but I think your first mate has grown tired of waiting for you, _amica mio_ , and wishes to speak with you most insistently." He could see the square-built, burly man stalking towards them with a look that was both of a mixture of irritation and affection on his face. For all her griping, the crew of the _Siren's Call_ was extremely loyal to Isabela. When she'd claimed rights of the ship from her deceased husband, the pirate queen had ensured that _only_ the loyalist remained on board.

Isabela cast a glance over her shoulder and gave a good-natured roll of her eyes, then looked back to Zevran. She found that he had turned his attention back to the water, his emotions still masked save for the vanished smile. She watched him for a moment more, and then headed off to intercept her first mate and actually deal with captain business.

She had a feeling she was going to be alone in her bed that night.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

He would remember many things about this day that he would wish he didn't, the scent of smoke from the burning buildings, the trampled blood-soaked fields that would never again flourish, the putrid, rotting flesh permeating from their pursuers…

And the screams. The shrill, sobbing shouts of children, women, and men alike, all of them pleading and begging for mercy that would never reach them.

It was those screams that would stay with him in his nightmares, and not merely that they existed – but that they grew quieter and more distant with each one he heard, as he left them behind.

No choice.

If he wanted to see his family live through this, Hawke had to focus on _them_ , not on the ones left behind. Other villagers had rallied at the first warnings, hurrying to flee Lothering before the wave of darkspawn struck, but many, many more were caught unprepared in the early morning hours. The soldiers and the few remaining Templars were doing what they could to help but refugees and villagers escape, but Hawke knew deep in his heart that it was futile – as futile as the Battle of Ostagar that Carver had described to him.

He refused to say out loud, where his mother and sister could hear, that their attempt at escaping was almost as futile.

"Garrett!" He heard his mother's frantic, breathless voice call out for him and stopped, turning to see her stumbling along behind him. He and Loch were on point, his mabari making use of his sharp sense of smell to find the clear paths for them to take, while Carver took up the rear. Bethany stayed close to Leandra, making sure their mother didn't fall behind.

Leandra looked pale and drawn, dust and dirt streaking her face and hair. They all looked a sight, Hawke was sure, but somehow it was seeing his mother in such disarray when she normally made herself presentable even during the worst of times cut through his heart. She didn't deserve this. _None_ of them _deserved_ this _._

_It's not about what anyone deserves, son. It's about what_ is _, and what you can do about it._ His father's words whispered themselves into his ear, and Hawke took a deep breath. Malcolm Hawke had always put his family first and foremost, even if he had to go without to do it. Hawke couldn't do any less.

He reached out to catch his mother's arm as she and Bethany caught up to him, Carver several paces back and keeping a look out behind them. "Are you all right, Mother?" Hawke asked in concern.

Leandra grasped her son's vest, twisting her fingers into the fabric tight. "I cannot go further," she said with a hint of desperation in her voice. "Not without rest."

"Mother, we have no choice," Bethany urged, holding onto Leandra's other arm. "The darkspawn could be right behind us, we have to keep moving."

Hawke pressed his lips together in a tight line, then looked beyond his mother and sister. "Carver!" he shouted, signaling him to come over. His brother did so, hair plastered to his head with sweat, a strained look in his eyes. Hawke didn't doubt this had to be hard on Carver, having just escaped from Ostagar and the Wilds, but there was no time for sympathies. Bethany was a healer by nature – which left it up to the brothers to ensure the safety of the rest of their family.

"How clear is the path behind us?" Hawke asked.

Carver frowned, pushing a hand through his hair to get it off of his forehead. "I haven't seen anything coming after us," he said, "but with the height of these cliffs and the way the path twists, my visibility isn't that good. Loch's nose would probably have better luck."

"We need Loch scouting ahead," Hawke said, his mind racing. One look at Leandra and it was clear she was on the verge of dropping – he _could_ have Bethany cast a rejuvenation spell on her, but he didn't want to needlessly deplete her mana in case they got into a scrape.

Hawke took a deep breath. "Ten minutes," he said. "We don't dare spare anymore. Carver, you and I will keep a look-out."

Carver glanced at his mother and sister, and nodded. Hawke was grateful that for once his younger brother wasn't going to argue the semantics about who was in charge and who wasn't – that was the last thing any of them needed, but Carver could get hotheaded enough to not recognize that.

Leandra gave Hawke such a look of gratitude that it actually started to make him feel uncomfortable – what he'd just done wasn't anything that warranted _that_ much thanks, but then that was how his mother had always been. He caught Carver glowering in his direction and ignored it. As Bethany brought Leandra over to a particularly large boulder to sit on, Hawke motioned to his brother to follow him a bit further away.

"Are you sure it's such a good idea to stop like this?" Carver asked in a low voice, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at his older brother with narrowed eyes. "Like I _said_ , visibility isn't that good around here. And just because we can't see them doesn't mean they don't have some way of tracking _us_."

"Would you rather Mother and Bethany collapse from exhaustion when they catch up to us and we have to run?" Hawke countered. "If we have any chance of making it to Gwaren, Carver, we need to make sure that we have enough _energy_ to complete the trip. I want to put as much distance between us and the darkspawn before we have to stop for the night as you do, but Mother's not used to this and neither is Bethany. The only reason you and I are doing better is because Father made sure we _could_."

"Made sure _you_ could, you mean," Carver muttered.

Hawke clenched his jaw. "Let's not start this now, Carver," he said, fighting to keep a lid on the famous Ferelden temper that everyone had said he'd inherited. 'Slow to boil, quick to explode' – that was how people had described Malcolm Hawke, and his eldest son had inherited that side of him more than any of the three children. Bethany _had_ no temper; Carver's burst the moment it started to build up. But Hawke himself could go for hours letting it simmer and keeping it under control – until that _one_ moment when enough was enough, and everything broke out.

"Not _now_ ," he repeated. "We have to focus on Mother and Bethany. The darkspawn are fast, strong, and _dangerous_ , but if we drive ourselves into the ground trying to keep ahead of them, eventually they're going to _catch_ us."

Carver's expression darkened, his eyes dimming as a haunted look spread momentarily across his face. "I _know_ what the darkspawn are capable of, Brother," he said quietly, with far more gravity than he usually showed. "I was at Ostagar, remember?"

Somehow the quiet delivery of this reminder was a harder strike than if Carver had yelled it at Hawke, and the elder brother cringed. He remembered. That first night back, when the Wardens had slept in the barn, Carver had hardly gone half an hour without waking up with a soft cry. Hawke himself had lain awake listening to him, even long after his brother had finally managed a deep, though fitful, sleep. It hadn't been as bad the next night, but those five words drove it home that the memories of that battlefield still clung hard to Carver.

Hawke took a deep breath. "Yes, I remember," he said quietly. He had to remind himself that Carver had managed to stay ahead of the darkspawn most of the distance between the Korcari Wilds and Lothering – Yllia herself had told him that Carver had only joined up with them for the last leg of the journey. Like it or not, his younger brother _did_ have experience in this that he didn't. _Because there's no place for an apostate on a battlefield…_

Don't go there, Garrett.

"Garrett?" Hawke looked up to see Bethany approaching them, having left Leandra sitting on a rock a few paces away. Worry was etched on her pretty features, but her face was covered in dust and grime. "This probably isn't the time to ask, but… where _are_ we going?"

Carver paused, then looked at his sister, his arms crossed over his chest. "Away from the darkspawn," he deadpanned. "Where else?"

She shot him the sort of look that was only reserved for twin sisters to direct at twin brothers. "I know _that_ much," she said, "but then where? We can't just wander aimlessly."

"Right now the only thing we need to worry about is staying alive," Hawke said with a shake of his head. He reached out and touched Bethany's arm. "If we keep heading east we'll eventually run into the road to Gwaren, but it'll be a long hike. Right now the _most_ important thing is to outrun the darkspawn."

Bethany didn't look convinced. "But once we get to Gwaren…what then, Garrett? Gwaren's no more north of the Wilds than Lothering. Eventually the darkspawn will reach them, too. It's a good goal for now, but what about _after?_ "

Hawke and Carver looked at each other – and the truth was, neither of them had thought that far ahead. Getting _to_ Gwaren was enough of a task that they simply hadn't had time to brainstorm what to do beyond then. They knew the legends. Only the Grey Wardens could stop the Blight. And, as they only knew two well, there were exactly two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden.

How far would the Blight spread?

"We can go to Kirkwall."

All three Hawke siblings simultaneously looked over at their mother, identical looks of shock upon their faces as they realized that, as usually, mothers had eyes in the back so their heads and an uncanny ability to know everything that was going on without hearing a word.

"What?" Hawke asked, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. "Why would we go there?"

"There's a _lot_ of templars in Kirkwall, Mother," Bethany said apprehensively. As a rule their family had always avoided places with a large templar presence – the thought of ever journeying to Leandra's home city of Kirkwall had never once occurred to them simply due to the overwhelming presence of the Templar Order there.

"I know that," Leandra said, looking at her only daughter. "But we still have family there. And an estate." There was a firmness to her tone that told all three of her children there would be no arguing with her on this one.

Bethany let out a sigh, brushing her hair back, and looked at her brothers. "Then when we get to Gwaren, we'll need to take a ship," she said with a touch of reluctance. Only a touch, and Hawke knew it was more for his sake than for hers – more than once Bethany had shown signs of being weary of her apostate life, and had confessed a time or two – out of earshot of their father – of a longing for the stability and security the Circle offered over a life of being an apostate. But she knew that to turn herself into the Circle was to risk her brother and father as well, and so she had resigned herself. No, it was for Hawke's sake and Hawke's alone that she feared the templars in Kirkwall.

Hawke had an uneasy feeling within him, a feeling as if this was a more monumental decision than any of them knew, but he said nothing.

"Let's go, then," Carver said, his tone curt. "We'll figure out the whole ship thing when we get out of here…if we survive that long. I'll just be happy to get out of here."

Hawke nodded. "Loch is up ahead scouting," he said, starting in the direction his mabari had scampered off in. "He should be reporting back at any—"

He broke off at the echoing, raucous sound of his mabari's barking, his head snapping up as he recognized the warning tone. A moment later Loch came tearing around a bend in the road, skidding to a stop in a shower of rocks and dirt and spinning on his haunches to position himself direction in front of Bethany and Leandra. Teeth bared, fur rising, he held himself in an attack stance as he focused his menacing gaze on the direction that he'd just come from.

Hawke's and Carver were on alert in an instant, sword and staff drawn in unison just as the first of the darkspawn came tearing over the rocks and around the bend, snarling and slavering as they caught sight of the quarry that they had been tracking. Of the two men they ignored – instead they tracked straight for the women, as if sensing that _they_ were the easiest of the four targets, paying no heed to the canine that had positioned itself in their way.

This proved a mistake – no sooner at the first Hurlock come within reach than did Loch lunge, slamming into its chest with claws extended and teeth flashing. The second Hurlock was cut down by Carver's greatsword, the group behind them exploding in an array of burning, corrupted flesh as Hawke's fire spell found its target. He grimaced – he was not as adept at fire magic as he was ice, but his opponents this numerous he needed to hit as many of them as possible.

"Where did they come from?" Leandra cried, clutching Bethany's arm as her daughter raised her other arm to cast healing and support spells on her brothers. Fortunately her instincts kept her behind them, preventing her children from having to tell her so.

"They must have doubled around!" Carver shouted, more to his brother than in response to his mother. He spun and slashed, muscles bulging as he wielded the massive weapon and hacked through darkspawn after darkspawn.

Hawke cursed angrily under his breath. Carver was right. They'd been watching their rear, and it should have occurred to him when the darkspawn didn't pursue them that they might come from another direction. These paths were treacherous, the rock outcroppings creating a twisting maze. One wrong turn could have you spun in the complete opposite direction from where you intended to be.

One wrong turn had walked them directly into the horde themselves.

The first wave had fallen, but Hawke could hear the scuttling, scurrying sounds echoing over the rocks. He looked at his family and made a split second decision. There'd been a fork in the road a ways behind him, one path to the west, another to the south. They'd gone west, the direction of Gwaren.

To the south lay the Korcari Wilds.

It had been logical to avoid the direction of the Wilds, having heard everything Carver had to tell him about the darkspawn there and the battle that had taken place at Ostagar. But now what he'd _thought_ would be the clear path was overrun – he didn't know for certain what lay to the south, but there was no chance of them pushing through to the west.

"Back along the path!" he shouted to his brother and sister, entrusting Leandra's safety to Bethany. Carver, realizing his intent, opened his mouth to form a protest. Hawke threw him a warning look so fierce that his brother snapped his mouth shut and glared, but said nothing.

"Now!" Hawke added when he noticed Bethany's hesitation. He didn't wait, moving back in the direction they'd come from, firing ice and fire spells at next wave of darkspawn that came over the bend in the path and the surrounding rocks. At the sight of his moving the others needed no further urging, Bethany grabbing Leandra's arm and pulling her along the path.

It was a flurry of motion then, the four of them running, Bethany and Leandra in the front with Carver and Hawke hanging back to cover their retreat. Bethany was white-lipped but determined, her grip tight on Leandra's arm as they made for the fork. Hawke shouted for his mabari, not wanting Loch lost and overwhelmed in the fray, and then released another fireball at a cluster of Hurlock. The scent of blood and burning flesh filled the air; Hawke struggled to keep from being ill.

A soft pulse came from the vicinity of his chest, and his hand flew up automatically to touch the amulet that lay hidden beneath his vest. It gave another pulse, and he felt the nausea and fatigue lift from his body, felt his nearly exhausted mana supply slowly begin to replenish itself. His eyes widened; he'd had no idea that the amulet the Grey Warden had given him possessed such a property. With ease pulse came renewed strength, the amulet aiding him with each spell he cast, giving him just enough of a boost to keep going without being overwhelmed. He sent a silent thought of thanks to the creator of the amulet – without it, he'd be out of mana and utterly vulnerable, unable to protect his family.

His mother's scream cut through his thoughts. Hawke turned just in time to see a Genlock scramble over the rocks on the right side of the path, dropping to the ground directly in front of his mother and sister. Eyes wide, he spun and brought up his staff to cast, seeing even as he did so that Bethany and his mother were right in the range of the spell, that the Genlock was already raising the giant axe it held in its hand, that his mother had nowhere to run or dodge and the axe itself would cleave right through the staff that Bethany held defensively –

\- and then the Genlock's head separated from its shoulders, flying to the side from the force of the decapitation.

The attack happened so swiftly that it took a minute for Hawke to realize that the head hadn't just detached of its own accord – it wasn't until the body collapsed alongside the head that he saw the tall, red-haired woman swinging her sword in an arc behind it, pivoting on her hip and deftly slicing through another darkspawn rushing up on her. To her left was an armored man, cutting through the creatures with just as much alacrity as his companion, moving through the steps of battle as if it was something he did every day of his life.

Hawke didn't question the excellent timing of the new arrivals; they'd saved his mother's life, he wasn't going to look that horse in the mouth any time soon.

Bethany seized Leandra's arm and pulled her out of the middle of the fray, casting a shield around them for protection as the other four rampaged on the darkspawn. Out of the corner of his eye Hawke watched the man parry and thrust, twisting around and slamming his shield into a Hurlock. The maneuver turned him so that he was facing Hawke, and Hawke's eyes widened as he realized two things.

The first was that the armor the man wore belonged to a templar.

The second was that another Hurlock was rushing up behind him, sword raised, and he _didn't see it_.

"Look out!" Hawke shouted, but the cry was drowned out by the man's pained scream as the Hurlock sliced into his arm with an upward thrust, causing his shield to fall from his now limp arm as he staggered forward. He spun around to face the Hurlock with his sword raised, but from the way he cradled the other limb against his side it was clear that he was hurt – and it was bad. And from the look in his eyes as the Hurlock approached him, he knew it.

Without warning, the red-haired woman came out of nowhere, slamming into the Hurlock and knocking it to the ground from the force. She slammed her fist against his face, stunning it, and in the same motion snatched up the darkspawn's sword. "You will _not_ have him!" she snarled, pressing the blade against the Hurlock's neck and forcing it down with all of her strength, blood and gore splattering everywhere as the creature's head was severed from its body.

The moment the creature gurgled its last breath she dropped the sword and moved to her feet, snatching up the dropped shield and rushing to the templar's side to help him strand. "They will not have you," she murmured to him. "Not while I breathe."

Although it might not have been the time for such thoughts…for a second Hawke was impressed.

The next second he was releasing a barrage of flame and ice on the darkspawn that were attempting to surround the pair, because no matter how much steel the woman had within her he sincerely doubted she was going to be able to fight off a dozen Hurlocks alone while attempting to keep her companion safe. Templar or no, Hawke couldn't stomach the thought of _anyone_ being subjected to death by the darkspawn. He hadn't been able to do anything for Lothering, but if he could help these two…

When the last darkspawn fell in a smoldering pile of crisped flesh, he strode over to the pair.

The woman had her attention turned to the templar, who was making an attempt at staying on his feet without any assistance. "Stop squirming, Wesley," she said with worried admonishment. "You'll make it worse."

Wesley grimaced with pain as he shifted to stand, pushing himself up one handed, but rather than soothe the concerns of his companion, his eyes fixated on Hawke and Bethany.

Oh. Great.

"Apostate," Wesley said, spitting out the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Keep your distance!"

"Well, the Maker has a sense of humor," Bethany muttered from Hawke's right. "Darkspawn and now a templar. I thought they all abandoned Lothering."

"The spawn are clear in their intent," Wesley said with just the right touch of righteousness to make Hawke want to let loose another barrage of fireballs, "but a mage is always unknown, the Order dictates."

" _Wesley._ " The woman next to him gave him a look of disapproval and shook her head.

Wesley took a step forward, locking his gaze with Hawke and narrowing his eyes. "The Order dictates."

That urge to blast the imperious man was growing stronger every second, and if not for Hawke's unwillingness to kill a man whose life he had just saved, not to mention waste the mana needed to do so, he might have been so much char and gristle on the ground right then. Fortunately, his companion proved to be quite a bit more level-headed, and reached out to touch Wesley's arm.

"Dear, they saved us," she reminded him. "The Maker understands."

Whether she truly meant those words or she was just trying to get the man to back down Hawke didn't know, but her quiet plea had the desired effect. Hawke could see the hostility leave Wesley's eyes, and a moment later he stepped back to stand alongside the woman with a murmured, "Of course," of acknowledgment.

The woman turned her attention to Hawke and his family then. "I am Aveline Vallen," she introduced, "and this is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate each other when we're safe from the hoard."

Hawke raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. "A strange time to be hunting apostates," he said as casually as possibly, gaze shifting from Aveline to Wesley. "Your fellows left with the Chantry priests."

Wesley hesitated, looking a bit uncomfortable as he answered. "I was traveling to Denerim on business," he said slowly, "but I had to head south when I heard about Ostagar."

"Bad luck – and judgment," Aveline shot another look in Wesley's direction, "brought us together here before the attack."

"The nice templar has been convinced to postpone his hunt for illegal mages," Bethany said with a touch of sarcasm that reminded Hawke that the twins were far more alike than most people usually thought. "So let's not dwell upon it, shall we?"

"Wise girl," Aveline said with sincerity, putting her up a couple more notches in Hawke's book.

Still, Hawke wasn't completely ready to put his trust in a templar. Most of his young life had been spent having it drilled into his head that most templars were Not To Be Trusted. Oh, there were a few good ones, Malcolm Hawke had said, but they were the exceptions to the rule. How to tell the difference between them, well, Hawke had never gotten around to asking his father that bit.

So he couldn't help but be suspicious of their overtures of companionship. "You're quick to offer your allegiance," he said, eyeing Aveline.

"Another blade between us and the darkspawn," Carver commented from behind. "Yes _, please_." Given Carver's extensive interactions with the creatures, Hawke couldn't blame his brother for being eager.

But Bethany ever remained the voice of caution. "So long as the hoard is their first concern," she said with a glance over her shoulder to her brother.

"My duty is clear," Wesley said, "but that is…for another day. If we are granted that opportunity."

_Thank you, Ser Sunshine._

"We will be fine," Aveline interjected. "We _all_ will."

The assurances would have to do – neither Carver nor Bethany seemed to mind, and if Leandra had a problem with it Hawke was certain she would have spoken up by now. He drew in a deep breath and then released it, pushing his hand through his hair. "For awhile there it looked like we were the only ones to defeat the darkspawn," he commented, his lack of continued challenge giving his consent to the newly formed alliance.

"We aren't free yet," Carver said with a touch of bitterness and apprehension, moving forward to stand to his brother's left. "You didn't _see_ Ostagar, Garrett. This is just the start."

Aveline looked at Carver with a touch of surprise. "You were there?" she asked, and then looked thoughtful. "Yes…yes, I see it now. Third Company, under Captain Varel."

Carver nodded in confirmation. "Then you saw how the whole of the army was defeated."

"The army fell to betrayal, _not_ to darkspawn," Aveline said with a touch of ferocity in her voice, though Hawke couldn't tell if she meant betrayal on the behalf of the Grey Wardens or betrayal on the part of Teyrn Loghain. Now that he'd _met_ the Grey Wardens in question he had little doubt as to which claim was more valid, but he didn't press. It wasn't any of his business what Aveline's personal opinions about the battle were. They were only going to be traveling together until they reached safety and no longer.

"Regardless of what happened at Ostagar, our first priority now is to get out of _here_ ," Hawke said firmly, looking at his brother as he spoke. "We need to get moving before they have a chance to regroup."

"The north is cut off," Aveline said grimly. "We barely escaped the main body of the hoard."

Hawke had feared as much when the darkspawn had come at them, but hearing it confirmed didn't make him feel any better.

"Then we're trapped!" Carver shook his head, setting his jaw tight. "The Wilds are to the south, and that's no way out!"

Hawke took a deep breath. "If the main concentration of the hoard is already to the north," he said, "then the south might be our only chance." He shook his head slightly, then snapped his fingers to call Loch to his side. He knelt down, scratching the mabari's neck. "Scout ahead for us, boy?"

Loch let out a bark and darted off, moving as if he hadn't just been in close combat with several darkspawn.

Hawke straightened up and watched him go for a moment. "He'll clear us a path," he said, nodding to the others. Slowly, as a group, they started after Loch, following the trail that he was clearing.

Hawke waited until they had gone past him, taking up the rearguard, and then took a couple of steps – and paused, a slight frown on his face. He turned to look up at a particularly steep cliff…but there was nothing there.

"Brother?" Bethany called back to him. "Is something wrong? Hurry up; we don't want you left behind."

"Coming." Hawke frowned slightly, then shrugged and started after the others. Still…he couldn't shake the feeling that just moments earlier, something at the top of that cliff had been watching him. But there was nothing there now.

The unease remained.


	15. Fate or Chance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hurtled into the chaos you fight...and the world will shake before you." - Flemeth

How long they ran Hawke couldn't say. The concept of time had long since disappeared. There was only time spent running without being chased by darkspawn, time spent running _while_ chased by darkspawn, and time spent killing darkspawn so that they could run some more. The seven of them, Loch included, were tired, pained, and sorely in need of a moment of respite that seemed never to come.

Leandra and Wesley had the hardest time. They traveled in the middle of the group, with Aveline and Carver bringing up the rear and Hawke and Bethany leading with Loch. There'd been much debate concerning this arrangement – Leandra didn't want Bethany out front, Wesley didn't want to be treated like an invalid regardless of the near-useless arm that Bethany hadn't been able to spare more than a few moments of cursory healing on, and Carver didn't want to be trailing the pack.

Hawke had finally put his foot down. He'd pointed out that the darkspawn were coming at them from behind now rather than from up ahead, making the warriors more necessary in the back. In contrast he and Bethany were better off in front because if it came down to battle they could be of more use _without_ darkspawn swords and axes swinging at their heads. As for Wesley, Aveline had handled that point by tossing him his sword without a word and watching him fumble the catch, proving that even with healing his arm was not up to par. Amazing how the grumbling died down once logic (and a visual aid) was thrust into the picture.

The formation had been proven the first time they'd been beset since setting it up, but it did nothing for the tension that was currently settling itself in Hawke's shoulders. His father's staff was heavy, and the muscles that he'd developed working the family farm were evidently not the same ones used to support a massive piece of wood and metal on one's back. Bethany didn't seem to be having the same issue, though her own staff was shorter and made of far lighter materials. Still, he caught the sympathetic look in his eyes when she caught him grimacing.

"Are you holding up okay, Garrett?" Bethany asked softly, dropping her voice and keeping it low so that Leandra wouldn't here. The last thing Hawke wanted was for his mother to think that something was wrong with him, and he appreciated that Bethany was thinking along the same lines.

"Just thinking how good it'll feel to reach a town where I can get a tub to soak in," Hawke replied, attempting to keep his response light-hearted. "I'll even take ice cold water if I have to. I'm not sure how Father managed to cart this thing around with him for so many years – I'm starting to suspect it's made of solid gold."

Bethany managed a smile in response, but it was strained from the situation. "I don't care if I ever have another bath again," she said softly, "if it means we can get out of here."

He reached out and touched her arm. "We're not down yet, little sister," he said affectionately. "Remember what Father would always tell us, whenever we were upset about having to move to a new home?"

She nodded. "He'd tell us to keep our heads high and never give up," she murmured. "And to always stick together."

"That's right." Hawke flashed her a grin. "And that's exactly what we're going to do."

This time her smile was more at ease, and Hawke silently congratulated himself on lifting his sister's spirits. _If only I could do it that easily for Carver, but he's bloody determined to be as stubborn as a mule and as prickly as a porcupine._ And unlike with Bethany, Hawke never could tell if it was stress from a situation or just Carver being, well, _Carver_.

A few feet ahead of them, Loch suddenly came to a stop, tossing his head up and sniffing the air. Hawke stopped walking and held up his hand, motioning for everyone else to stop.

"What's going on?" Carver called from the rear.

"Loch's picking up on something, I don't know what," Hawke called back. He watched the mabari pace back and forth, alternating between putting his nose to the ground and then lifting it up high. Loch let out a soft keen, and then suddenly his ears swept back and lay flat against his skull, lips curling upwards to bare sharp fangs. Oh yes. Loch was _decidedly_ picking up on something.

The mabari turned to look at Hawke, intelligent eyes making his request clear to his master.

"Everyone wait here," Hawke said. "I'm going to take Loch and see what it is."

"You're going to leave us?" Leandra asked, looking very much like she did _not_ find that idea acceptable in the slightest.

"We won't go far, Mother," Hawke promised, looking at her. "Just enough to see if there's any immediate danger. Stay here – this part should be safe, whatever Loch's picking up on it further ahead."

Bethany went to Leandra and touched her arm. "It'll be safer if they can see what's ahead," she said. "Garrett will be okay, Mother. He'll have Loch with him, after all."

"And the rest of us could do with a breather," Aveline said firmly, her eyes on Wesley. He looked like he was going to stubbornly refuse to admit when he had to stop for a moment, so clearly his wife had taken it upon herself to make those decisions for him.

Leandra hesitated, and in that hesitation Hawke knew that she was going to relent and agree. "All right," Hawke said curtly before she could find another reason to protest. "Carver, keep an eye out while we're gone – Loch and I will be back shortly."

Carver's brow furrowed, but Hawke didn't have the time or the patience to placate his brother about being left with guard duty. He snapped his fingers to the mabari, who immediately glued himself to his left leg, herding Hawke in the direction that he wanted to go in. Hawke unstrapped his staff and followed Loch's lead, eyes scanning the craggy landscape.

His gut twisted with foreboding. These hills had once flourished with greenery. Now they were little more than dirt and rock, the sporadic clusters of grass and bushes rapidly browning. Could the taint really spread this fast? Or had it been a gradual onset, spreading outwards from the Wilds, and without the presence of the darkspawn themselves everyone had failed to notice what was happening?

He gripped the staff tighter. Holding it was strange, odd, and against everything that Malcolm Hawke had ever taught his children. Staves couldn't be carried out in the open – waving one about was like announcing the templars, "Here I am! I'm an Apostate, come take me to the Circle!" Hawke and Bethany hadn't even been given formal staves of their own; the ones they used now had once belonged to Malcolm himself, locked away after his death. And now here he was, carrying one around – strange how he was dwelling on it, when such a concern should have been the last thing on his mind.

He was grasping at the familiarity, seeing solace from the destruction around him.

Loch stopped walking and shoved his head down into the dirt, sniffing around to retrace the path that they'd followed. Another growl, but the tone to this one was different – disgust mixed with hesitation, as if what the mabari was scenting was nothing that he himself wanted to encounter. Hawke's uneasiness returned in triplicate.

But after moment of hesitating Loch began to move again, apparently deciding that it was safe enough to track for a little longer. Hawke kept his focus on the dog and not his thoughts, all the while still keeping a solid lookout as they walked. There was nothing – only silence and outstretched barren land. It was quiet.

Too late Hawke realized that by staring at the similar, unchanging landscape he had lost track of his direction. Too late did he notice the increased agitation in Loch as he quickened his pace, and far, far too late did he realize one essential fact about the direction they were walking.

They were doubling back. They'd traveled in an arcing path, moving in a semi-circle around to return back to the same place where they had begun, where he had left his family to wait for him. Loch had picked up one scent trail, but had failed to notice the direction it was moving in until it had begun to turn. His choice to move on hadn't been because he'd decided everything was safe; it was because it _wasn't_ safe, but whatever it was heading in a straight path towards his family.

He was already running when he heard the scream, the shrill, piercing sound echoing through the rocks. He recognized his mother's voice. He heard his sister's name.

Hawke and Loch launched themselves simultaneously over an outcropping of rock, the mabari landing nimbly on his feet, Hawke slamming the end of his staff into the ground to absorb some of his impact. His eyes focused up ahead, and time seemed to slow.

He saw the massive ogre towering over his mother and brother, black saliva and congealing blood dripping from its fangs. He saw it raise its arms up high, saw the limp form hanging from its grasp, saw it open its fist…

…saw the broken body of his sister hit the ground where it was thrown, unmoving, covered in red…

...felt the blood rush through him, roaring in his ears and drowning out the creature's echoing call to its brethren as it lifted its massive axe to crush his mother and brother.

" _No!_ " The voice didn't register as his even as it ripped from his throat. He didn't see Carver bring up his greatsword to block the strike; he only saw the danger to his family.

He felt the energy crackling around his fingers, felt the power burn in his veins as it surged from somewhere deep inside of him, some untapped source that he hadn't known was within him. Hawke slammed the end of his staff into the ground, thrusting out his hands as sparks jumped from finger to finger. Lighting exploded outwards from his palms, slamming into the ogre and causing the creature to jerk from the sudden introduction of an electrical current into its body. Carver had just enough time jump back and pull Leandra with him, breaking the contact between the ogre's axe and his own weapon for he got himself caught up in the surge.

The ogre staggered back, caught in the seizure throes, foam gathering at the mouth as its insides were demolished. Even after the massive creature fell back dead Hawke didn't stop, another cry of rage fueling his power as the lightning arced from the ogre's body to slam into the darkspawn that had come in answer to its call. One after another they fell until all that remained were charred, smoking remains lying in crumpled heaps upon the dusty ground.

Only then, once his fury and power had nowhere else to reach, did Hawke lower his hands and grasp his upright staff, leaning against his heavily for support as he shook from the exertion.

" _Bethany!_ " Leandra's tortured cry echoed in Hawke's ears, and despite Carver's attempts at holding her back their mother ran to her daughter, falling to her knees next to her and reaching for her. She cupped Bethany's head in her hands, tears streaming down her face as she tried to coax her awake, pleading with her desperately for her to open her eyes.

Bethany didn't stir.

Hawke clenched his jaw and forced himself to move, his body feeling numb with magic exertion and the heavy, leaden feeling of failure and despair that slammed into him as he drew closer to his mother and sister.

Carver had followed after Leandra, but he'd stopped more than a foot away, his face ashen underneath the blood, ash and grime. His eyes had grown wide, and he had a deathgrip on his greatsword, holding it slightly before him as if the weapon could act as a barrier between himself and the horror that the lifeless form on the ground was _his twin sister_.

Sobs wrenched Leandra's shoulders as she bent over Bethany, voice hoarse with wordless pleas. Aveline approached quietly with Wesley, and despite the templars obvious apprehension regarding mages there was nothing but sorrow and regret in his expression.

Hawke stopped and knelt next to Leandra, his hand coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. "Mother," he said softly, his voice cracking, "don't. It's…"

Leandra's head snapped up, her eyes flashing in anger. "This is all your fault!" she exclaimed, her pale face suddenly flushing with color. "If you hadn't gone off like that, if you'd only _stayed_ with us, then Bethany…Bethany…!" She let out a keening cry of sorrow, bending over Bethany and pressing her face into her daughter's hair.

Hawke sat back on his heels, jerking back as fast as if Leandra had just slapped him physically. Mouth dry, he stared at his mother in numb disbelief. His fault? He'd been doing everything he could to _protect_ his family, to keep them safe, to… to…

The strength of his failure fell upon him like a crushing weight, and he swallowed hard, his eyes focusing on the still form of his younger sister. Bethany, the only one since their father had died to understand how hard it was to have magic and have to keep it hidden. Bethany, who had always been quick to help and eager to please. Bethany, who…

Hawke's eyes widened.

"Mother!" he shouted, so loud and sudden that it made everyone jump and Loch scramble behind Carver's legs warily. Leandra's head jerked up and she stared at her son, but before she could ask he'd reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking her back from Bethany.

"Garrett, what…!" She stopped when Hawke yanked off the amulet he'd been wearing and slipped it over Bethany's head, letting the metal rest against her chest as his own hands flared with green Creation magic. It wasn't his forte, Bethany had always been the one with skill in healing, but he was hoping – _praying_ – that the amulet would give an edge.

He blocked out everything around him - the questions from his family, the startled gasps as Bethany's fingers twitched, the shocked exclamation when the rise and fall of her chest became noticeable. He only paid attention to what he was doing as he felt the broken and crushed bones slowly knit themselves back together, felt the reparations to her internal organs , and felt her heart as it grew in strength with each beat.

And then she opened her eyes.

Leandra gasped out her daughter's name, surging forward as Hawke slumped, a wave of weariness washing over him. He felt groggy enough that he was sure he'd be able to sleep for a week. And then some.

Except that he couldn't. He reached into his pack and fumbled for a vial of lyrium, the last he had, seeking out the small glass container with numb fingers. Bethany's eyes were still open, but it was clear she was in a dazed state – she was able to just mumble out her mother's name and Carver's, but it would be awhile before she regained any sense of coherency.

Using his staff for support, Hawke hauled himself to his feet, stumbling a little. "We can't stay here," he said, noticing for the first time the charred corpses that he'd left in his wake. He suppressed the shudder that tried to pass through him at the sight. Maker, had he really lost control like that? He didn't want to think too much about it. Not now. Not yet. "Carver, can you carry Bethany?"

"Yeah," Carver said without hesitation. He sheathed his sword and knelt down to gently gather his twin into his arms. But as he straightened up, he gave his brother a shrewd look. "But where are we going to go?"

It was a very good question. With Wesley injured, Bethany unconscious and Carver carrying her, and his own mana supplies vastly deteriorated, there options were suddenly and severely limited.

And then his throat tightened as he saw the shadowed figures step out from around the rocks in front of them.

Leandra let out a cry, tripping over the hem of her dress as she stumbled to her feet. "Garrett!" she cried out, her eyes widening at the sight of so many darkspawn.

Hawke felt his throat tighten. "I see them." _Andraste's arse_. How long had they been laying in wait, preparing for the moment to close in on them? His heart constricted tightly as he counted their numbers. There were so _many_ of them.

Too many for them to fight off.

With a feeling of dread Hawke realized that it didn't matter if he'd saved his sister's life. Their luck had run out. They weren't going to get out of this alive.

And then the dragon appeared.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

If she hadn't witnessed the man's healing of his sister, she might have thought that for once her plans had gone awry. After so much time spent seeking out _just_ the right ones, _just_ the right connections and entwining threads needed to weave her web, perhaps she was overdue for a misstep.

But the moment he had begun to work his magic, she _knew_. This _was_ the one. The final piece of the puzzle, the last key to fit the last lock. This man, this mage, had far more in his future than dying to a hoard of darkspawn in a blighted, desolate land. He simply didn't know it yet.

And so she had shown herself, descending from the cliffs above to lay waste the darkspawn that now threatened to overwhelm the ragtag and weary party below. When the last one fell, so much char and gristle, she became enveloped in magic and light, adjusting her form and returning to the human shell she made such frequent use of.

She'd chosen a form different from the old woman in the Wilds this time, one that bespoke of power and strength, one that did not attempt to _hide_ who or what she was. Amidst the smoke and flame she approached them, her eyes locking onto those of the mage, holding his gaze even as he looked at her warily.

"Well, well," she purred, one hand resting on her hip as she stopped a few feet from them. "What have we here?"

The mage started forward, his brother a touch behind him with the girl in his arms, but they hadn't gotten more than a few steps before the man dressed in the templar's armor staggered and went to his knees. The woman warrior helped him to the ground, but _she_ could tell that the man was not long for the world. Whether or not his companions had figured that out already, she couldn't say. She didn't much care.

She smiled slowly, her gaze returning to the mage. "It used to be we _never_ got visitors to the Wilds, but now it seems they arrive in hordes."

The mage, though bone-weary and frayed he was, looking at her as if he were attempting to appraise her and figure out the right tact and approach for his response. "Thank you for saving us," he said with a hint of caution. "That was rather impressive…turning into a dragon and all."

Not so easy to trust, this one. Good. She'd rather have a king instead of a pawn.

"Perhaps I _am_ a dragon," she purred, earning her a look that said he wasn't quite sure whether to believe her or not. "If so, count yourself lucky. The smell of burning darkspawn does nothing for the appetite."

She turned away from them, then, her eyes on the corpses that she'd left in her wake. "If you're attempting to flee the darkspawn, you should know that you're heading in the wrong direction." _Or the right one, depending on how one looks at it_.

"So you're just going to leave us here?" asked the younger warrior – a brother, judging from the familial resemblance. Unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but worth it to make a note of at any rate.

She looked over her shoulder at him. "And why not?" she asked, her voice hard. She turned back to them fully, her eyes going to the mage, amber-gold fixing on emerald-green. "I spotted a most _curious_ sight: a mighty ogre, vanquished! Who could perform such a feat?" She shook her head. "But now my curiosity is sated, and you are safe…for the moment. Is that not enough?"

"My sister is in need of medical attention and stronger healing," the mage said with a shake of his head, determination returning to his voice along with strength. "We won't be able to get through the darkspawn on our own."

She approached him, never breaking eye contact. "They are _every_ where, or soon will be. Where is it you plan to run to, hmm?"

"We're going to Kirkwall, in the Free Marches," the brother interjected, and he held his sister closer to his chest, protectively. Perhaps wary of her approach? If so, smarter lad than she'd given him credit for.

She smiled, feigning surprise. Kirkwall…of course, Kirkwall. Though it had been ages since she had set foot within the city, she knew it well from days of old. Ah. So _this_ was the role Kirkwall was to play in the game. While one strategy played out in Ferelden, another would play out across the Waking Sea…yes. Now it was all making sense.

"Kirkwall? My, that _is_ quite the voyage you've planned," she said, smiling slowly. "So far…simply to flee the darkspawn."

"Any better suggestions?" the mage asked dryly. "I hear the Deep Roads are vacant now."

The unexpected levity drew a laugh from her, and her eyes gleamed with power. "Oh, _you_ I like," she said with a nod. "The same wit, but with a far better head upon your shoulders."

She reached out suddenly, grasping his wrist tight. "Hurtled into the chaos you fight…and the world will shake before you."

He narrowed his eyes. "What are you…" He moved to pull his hand back, but she released it and turned once more, walking a few paces away with her eyes focused on the horizon. Somewhere, out there, the world was releasing its fifth scream. The only question was, for how long would it last?

"Is it fate, or chance?" she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. "I can never decide." She had lost her sense of time long ago – to her, a year could feel like a blink of an eye in her life. Was it fate that all of these players were now stepping out onto the board – or was it merely chance, coincidence that they were here _now?_

Either way, there was little doubt in her mind that this man was key to the games being played. What his role would be precisely, what his purpose, she did not know. That was future's knowledge, and she did not desire to seek it. It was far more entertaining, living in the now, moving what she would at will without knowing the precise outcome, though none of the moves would change the endgame. It would merely make keeping score that much more endurable.

And besides, this one could be useful in the short run as well as the long.

She turned back to the group watching her. "It seems fortune smiles on us both today. I may be able to help you yet."

He crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a shrewd look. "There's a catch, isn't there?"

She laughed again. Oh, yes… _this_ would be one worth watching. "There is _always_ a catch. Life is a catch! I suggest you catch it while you can!"

"Are you sure we can trust her?" the brother asked warily, eyeing the mage. "We don't even know what she is!"

" _I_ know what she is." This came from the woman warrior, who had spoken not a word, too busy assisting the corrupted templar. That one was not long left for this world. The woman leveled her shrewd gaze at the other woman. "The Witch of the Wilds."

"Some call me that," the witch admitted. "Also Flemeth, Asha'bellanar. An old hag who talks too much." She chuckled – alright, so that one did have his moments as well. "Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde in exchange for a simple delivery to a place not far out of your way. Would you this for a 'Witch of the Wilds'?"

The mage hesitated, then looked over at his brother silently. The two of them held each other's gazes for a moment, and then the mage turned back to her. "What would you have me do?"

"There is a clan of Dalish elves near the city of Kirkwall." Or there would be, by the time they reached the Free Marches. "Deliver this amulet to their Keeper, Marethari." She drew a plain, silver amulet and chain out from a hidden pocket within her clothes, placing it in the mages hand. His eyes widened slightly – he'd felt its power pulse, she was certain. "Do as she asks with it, and any debt between us is paid in full."

The mage took the amulet, looking down at it, and then gave a slow nod. He slipped it into his pack – carefully, she noted with approval. He knew it held power; he wanted to do nothing to potentially disrupt it. Though his power was far from fully trained, he had a lot of it, and it was volatile.

She wondered what Morrigan would think about this man, if she'd been given the opportunity to meet him.

With the amulet safely secured, she stepped back – and now her eyes went not to the mage, but to the templar, her expression growing serious. "Before I take you anywhere, however," she said quietly. "there is another matter…"

He turned to follow her gaze, and she watched as grim realization settled over his handsome features. He knew what she was saying…and he knew what must be done.

Yes. This one would do just fine.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"Here. It's not exactly a cool, refreshing river, but it'll take enough of the edge off."

Yllia looked up as Alistair set the bucket of water next to her, and she felt a combined rush of relief and eagerness at the sight of the water. _Clean_ water, _cold_ water. Without hesitation she undid the clasps on her robes, shrugging out of them until she was left in just only her thin under-robe and smallclothes, and practically attacked the bucket.

"I never thought I'd say this," she said as she splashed water onto her face and neck, "but I actually _miss_ the Circle at times like this."

Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her, settling down next to her in front of the fire – and, she noted to her amusement – averted his eyes despite the fact that she was really showing nothing at all to be modest about. The under-robe was shapeless, and she didn't have the sort of figure that the fabric would have clung even when damp. "Oh?" he asked.

"Yes. We may not have had much freedom under the templars' watchful eyes," Yllia said, reaching up to tug her hair out of its various ties, "but at least we had the privilege of nice, full baths. Not always _private_ , mind you, but nice nonetheless. Do you think Sten would think it frivolous and detrimental to the cause if, we splurge some extra coin on an inn with a private bathing chamber?"

Alistair chuckled, grinning. "Probably," he said, "but I say go for it anyway. Provided we have the coin. _Do_ we?"

She shrugged, bending forward to dip her hair into the bucket. Not the most effective way to clean it, but if she had to walk another mile with blood, sweat, and grim on her skin and in her hair, she was going to set something on fire.

As much of a hurry as they were in to reach Kinloch Hold and then get back to Redcliffe, once the sun had disappeared below the horizon even Sten had been forced to admit that a forced march through an unfamiliar forest in the dead of night was not the best of suggestions. They'd found a semi-clearing to camp in, Leliana and Yllia dealing with the tents while Alistair took Rhys to hunt up some game and leaving Sten on guard, and had settled in to wait out the time until first light.

Yllia had finally admitted how ragged she'd been running herself when Alistair and Rhys had returned with two rabbits and she'd practically tripped over herself in a haste to get to them and get them cooked. With time being of the essence, one rabbit was subjected to magical fire, while the other was stored for later. Magical fire cooking wasn't nearly as appetizing as a true fire, but when you hadn't eaten anything decent or substantial for over a day, you couldn't afford to be picky.

Aside from the rabbits, Alistair had also made the discovery of a brook not far from their campsite. It wasn't large enough for anyone to actually bathe in, so they improvised by collecting water in buckets and taking turns. Yllia, despite being eager to rid herself of the unwanted accumulations of their many battles, had graciously permitted her companions first chance at the bucket.

All right, she just didn't want to look like she was abusing her position as 'leader'. Waiting for the bucket had been sheer torture once she'd actually started to _think_ about how she had to look.

"Probably not," she admitted. "We've been scavenging what we can, but that combined with the meager bits we got from Lothering really isn't going to get us far. If we get a bit of spare time I might be able to take some of the herbs and such that we've collected and make some potions or poultices that we can either use or sell, but right now we're rather sparse,"

Alistair nodded slightly, still keeping his eyes averted, and the two of them lapsed into silence as Yllia finished up with her grooming. Once she was feeling relatively cleaner and more satisfied, she yanked her robes back into place and set to the arduous task of redoing her hair.

"Are you all right, Yllia?"

The question made her pause, and she glanced up, peering through her untamed bangs at the man next to her. Alistair was looking at her now, expression attentive and searching. Almost _too_ attentive and searching, and it caused a nervous feeling to flutter in Yllia's stomach. She could no longer deny that Alistair's attention and concern caused a surprising flurry of emotion to well up within her, nor could she deny that it made her simultaneously pleased, nervous, and uneasy. She wasn't used to any one person having such an effect on her simply by being _near_.

And she wasn't entirely convinced that the comfort she found with him wasn't due to the two of them being the only Warden survivors of Ostagar.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asked, fighting back her body's desire to blush and betray her.

He gave her a pointed look. "It wasn't all that long ago that you told me about what happened when you left the Circle," he reminded her. "And I'm not so oblivious that I wouldn't notice that the Jowan you told me about and the Jowan we just met in Redcliffe are the same person."

She winced, both from his observation – _why_ couldn't he be as obtuse as Morrigan claimed he was? – and from the touch of venom she heard when he spoke Jowan's name.

As there was little point in denying the obvious, she kept her head bowed as she worked on her hair so that she wouldn't have to look at him. "I don't know how I am," she confessed. "It's been one thing after another since we found Jowan in that cell, and I haven't had enough time to myself to think about it. One minute it's like…like he's the same Jowan that I've known since we were children. And then the next it's like I'm talking to a stranger, talking about things that Jowan and I would _never_ talk about."

Her hands stilled, then dropped to her lap. She couldn't focus on her hair long enough to get it to resemble anything like its usual style. "When he started to talk about sacrifices and rituals… it gave me chills, Alistair. The Jowan I knew could barely cast a Winter Blast spell, let alone set up a ritual as complex as this. And yet I heard it in his voice and saw it in his eyes – he _knows_ what he's talking about. And I just have to wonder, how long? How long has he had this other side to him that I didn't know about? How long was I _oblivious?_ "

She swallowed hard as she spoke. How long _had_ she failed to notice the changes in Jowan? She hadn't even known about his relationship with Lily until he'd told her, and from what she'd picked up from the two of them it had been going on for more than just a few months. She should have noticed something.

"Maybe that's something you should ask him," Alistair said quietly.

Yllia lifted her head, peering out at him from behind her bangs. "Ask him?" she repeated. "As in, sit down and have a conversation with him? We don't exactly have that kind of time."

"Not right now, maybe, we don't," Alistair replied, "but after we deal with this demon and help Connor there might be an opportunity. If there is, take it. Otherwise this is just going to keep eating at you, and it's going to be even worse. And the last thing I want to see happen is for you to get distracted in the middle of a fight because your thoughts were off in some other world."

She could feel her cheeks coloring at the concern that she heard. "Why, Alistair," she said with a soft, slight smile, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were worried about me."

He picked up on her tone and grinned. "Of course I'm worried," he said. "After all, you're the only healer we've got. Who's going to keep me from using up our supply of injury kits if you're not paying attention?"

Yllia grimaced in response, but her lips tugged upwards into a smile. "Flattery will get you everywhere," she quipped. "Though please, try not to get too injured. Me being the only healer we've got isn't saying much. I've always been more interested in blowing things up."

"And you're plenty good at that!" he said brightly. The two of them exchanged grins, much of the tension lifting from Yllia's shoulders. She finished with her hair and settled back, wrapping the loose fabric of her robes around her legs and tucking them under her. Then she tucked her hand under her chin.

"I don't know about Jowan," she said, getting back to their topic. Avoiding it wouldn't do any good. "It isn't just the difference in his magic. It's… it's what they said, what _he_ said, about poisoning the arl."

"Let me guess," Alistair said with an edge to his voice. "That's something else he wouldn't have done before?"

"You don't have say it that way," Yllia said with a touch of defensiveness. "It's _not_. Jowan would _never_ hurt someone intentionally. Even when he used blood magic in the Tower and ran no one was harmed – he just wanted to slow the templars down so that they wouldn't pursue him. It's just not in his _nature_. So either he _really_ believed that was he was doing was the right thing…"

"…or Teyrn Loghain has managed to thoroughly convince him that it is so, and that he will truly be able to re-enter the Circle with this act. Either way the outcome does not look good for your friend."

Leliana settled down onto the ground opposite both Alistair and Yllia, looking to be in profoundly better spirits than she had been before their impromptu bathing." _Pardonnez-moi_ ," she said with an apologetic smile, "but I could not help overhearing your conversation. Do you mind if I join you in it?"

Yllia and Alistair looked at each other, and Alistair gave a one-shouldered shrug. They'd had little time to really get to know their rogue companion, save for general conversations between Lothering and Redcliffe, but in that brief time Yllia had managed to form an opinion that the young Chantry sister had a rather keen mind and absorbed far more than her otherwise airheaded nature would lead one to assume. And, Yllia likewise determined, Leliana didn't strike her as the type to simply stick her nose into other people's conversations unless she had an opinion on the matter.

"Not at all," Yllia said with a shake of her head. "Do you have anything to offer?"

Leliana gave a disarmingly sweet smile. "Perhaps I do," she said. "You were discussing Jowan's claim that Teyrn Loghain was the one who put him up to his task in Redcliffe, _oui?_ "

Yllia nodded. "I don't see any reason why – or even _how_ – Jowan would lie about something like that. He has nothing to gain for wanting Arl Eamon dead."

"I agree." Leliana gave a pensive nod. "What need would a mage have for a dead arl? And your Jowan does have the perfect thing for the teyrn to hold over his head. He wishes to return to the Circle, and Teyrn Loghain has agreed to arrange such a return in exchange for assassinating the arl." She pressed her lips together. "Except that it is an empty promise."

Alistair nodded. "Loghain's got no hold over the Circle of Magi or the templars," he said. "They fall under _Chantry_ purview – even if he recommends that Jowan be given a second chance, neither the Knight-Commander or the First Enchanter _have_ to agree. And Loghain has to know that, which means he's made Jowan a false promise to get him to do his dirty work." As he spoke the words Alistair looked even more upset than he had when Yllia had brought up the subject of Jowan poisoning the arl in the first place.

Yllia looked downcast. "And Jowan wouldn't know better," she said dismally. "Neither he nor I ever paid much attention to politics outside the Circle. A lot of the older mages do, but we were just apprentices. All he would have known was that the teyrn was a man of great power, and that Jowan himself was desperate." She reached out, running her hand over Rhys' heavy, muscular back.

"What _I_ am most curious about," Leliana put in, "is how the teyrn knew to send Jowan to Redcliffe in the guise of a mage tutor. Did not the arlessa say that she kept her son's magic a secret?"

"True," Yllia agreed, "although she could have easily put out a request for an apostate without alluding to the reason why. A _discreet_ request, of course. And even if she didn't, there are certain _signs_ in fledgling mages. Maybe Loghain picked up on hints of what Connor was and maneuvered Jowan into being there at the right place and the right time."

"From what I know about him he's certainly smart enough to do that," Alistair agreed, "but I don't know when he would have seen anything like that. Arls are lower than Teyrns, and even if Arl Eamon was the king's uncle, I doubt Teyrn Loghain spent too much time in Redcliffe, let alone around Connor. I certainly don't remember him visiting when _I_ lived there." His eyes clouded over slightly. "Then again, I wasn't exactly invited to important meetings with high officials."

Yllia sighed. "We can beat around with what-ifs and maybes until we're blue in the face and the sun is on the rise," she said, "but we still won't be closer to figuring out Teyrn Loghain's motives _or_ Jowan's true intentions. Right now I just want to focus on getting to the Circle and then back to Redcliffe in time to save Connor. That's the important thing. The rest of us…we can deal with after the fact."

"Will it be very difficult, you think, to gain the Circle's assistance?" Leliana inquired. "I know little about the workings of the Circle of Magi."

"That depends on what the general reaction is when people see that I've returned," Yllia said wryly. "But First Enchanter Irving is a good man, and Knight Commander Greagoir may be tough, but he's also reasonable. With any luck it'll take us no more than an hour or two to persuade them and make the arrangements and then be back on our way." She smiled at her companions. "I doubt we'll have any trouble at all."


	16. Fragment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The nightingale in a golden cage
> 
> That's me locked inside reality's maze
> 
> Come someone make my heavy heart light
> 
> Come undone, bring me back to life' 
> 
> \- 'Escapist', Nightwish

The sky had grown gray and dismal as the rainclouds rolled in, blocking out the sun and dimming the valley until it seemed like the day was far further along than it was. It felt inevitable when the first drizzling drops fell, striking leather and chainmail, drawing irritated snorts from horses and muttered curses from anyone who lacked suitable covering.

When the first rumble of thunder echoed in the distant, it seemed an ominous warning.

"What is taking so long?" A tall, broad-shouldered man clad in the heavy armor of the warriors, the griffon heraldry of the Grey Wardens emblazoned on his cloak, complained as he came to stand alongside one of his companions. "The Commander has been at the border post for well over two hours now – we should have already been through the gates and halfway to Highever by now!"

"Given the history between Orlais and Ferelden, not to mention Ferelden and our Order, it is no small surprise that they would be hesitant to allow us passage," the dark-haired rogue the warrior was speaking to commented, silver-grey eyes focusing on the other man. "We must be patient, Francois."

The warrior gave a loud harrumph. "You'd think the Commander would be able to cut through the red tape given that the King of Ferelden himself personally requested our aid," Francois said. "And not only do we have a missive from _him_ , but Duncan sent one as well." He frowned slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Something about this is making me uneasy, Riordan."

Riordan made a non-committal sound, but the truth of the matter was that he agreed with Francois. They _should_ have been well on their way to the Highever teyrnir by this point, where they had expected to be re-supplied before swinging southwards towards Ostagar.

Was the Blight, perhaps, more widespread than they had feared? Duncan's report had stated that the horde had not yet breached the Korcari Wilds, but there were no rules that said the darkspawn could only rise up from _one_ specific place. If there was one thing anyone could be certain of about a Blight, it was that there was no telling where and when that first wave would rise up to begin its assault upon the land. Not even Grey Wardens could accurately predict such things.

The crowd around them began to stir, and Riordan caught sight of the familiar blue and white mantle and hulking body of the Warden-Commander of Orlais. The Commander would never be called handsome, at least by Orlesian standards – the thick scar that ran from temple to jaw on the left side of his face enough to dismiss _that_ possibility – but what he lacked in looks he more than made up for in sheer physical presence. He stood over six feet and his armor had to be custom-fitted to encompass his the size of his muscles, the massive battleaxe strapped to his back evident a testament to his strength. His appointment had been controversial when the previous Commander had gone to Orzammar for his Calling, but Riordan couldn't help but admire Warden-Commander Geraud Fournier.

He also couldn't help but pity whoever the Commander must have just been speaking with a few moments earlier, because from the dark anger that he saw in the Commander's eyes, they must have gotten an earful of his fury. When Fournier lost his temper, it was difficult to rein in on a _good_ day.

This was not a good day.

"Francois. Riordan. Tore. Myrna." He barked the names out in quick succession, naming the four highest ranking Senior Wardens present with the force. Only Wardens, Riordan noted – none of the chevaliers that accompanied them.

The four Senior Wardens in question followed the Commander into the trees, a fair distance away so as to be out of earshot – again, Riordan saw that it was only out of earshot for the chevaliers, a Grey Warden could possibly still hear at this distance if they felt inclined to do so.

"Commander?" Tore, a surface-born dwarf who rarely spoke unless he deemed it important, inquired with a cautious look at the man. "Has something gone amiss in Ferelden?"

His response was an angry snort. "Amiss?" he asked bitingly. " _Amiss_ seems far too simply a word for what's happened here. The Fereldens have refused us entry!"

"What?" Francois looked at Geraud incredulously, and Myrna let out a string of curses, Elvish and human both, that would have made a noble woman blush. Riordan, for his part, was simply stunned. "How can they…how can they _refuse us entry?_ We were invited by the King himself! And there's a _Blight!_ "

Geraud's expression suddenly filled with remorse, and it sent a chill down Riordan's spine. "The first Battle of Ostagar failed," he said quietly. "King Cailan lies dead upon the battlefield – more than half of Ferelden's army with him. The horde has spread, reports saying that they have reached as far north as Lothering."

Riordan could feel himself pale at the words. "Why is this the first we have heard of this?" he asked, his mind reeling. The king, dead? The darkspawn spreading? They had been hoping to contain the threat within the Wilds – the army at Ostagar was only to hold the line until their force arrived!

All at once Riordan realized why the chevaliers were being kept out of this discussion. The Grey Wardens were impartial to politics between nations, but the chevaliers were loyal to Orlais. It was common knowledge that there were many nobles who still coveted Ferelden – Maker, there were some nobles who still refused to see it as an independent nation. If word reached those nobles that Ferelden's king was no more…

"But if the situation is so dire," Myrna was asking, "why won't they let us pass through? If the darkspawn are spreading, they _need_ us. Or do they think Duncan and his force is enough?"

The pain in Geraud's eyes made Riordan's heart almost stop.

"Duncan… all of the Ferelden Wardens…fell at Ostagar as well," Geraud said quietly.

Riordan felt as if someone had just driven a fist into his gut. The others all let out varying exclamations of shock, but he found himself unable to speak. Duncan? Dead? Although death on the battlefield was certainly not uncommon for Grey Wardens – nay, it was _expected_ , especially in the face of a Blight – somehow Riordan had never imagined that Duncan would fall before _him_.

"It's never a question of whether or not we will meet our end," Tore said morbidly, "but rather one of when and how."

Myrna shot the dwarf a scathing look, glancing at Riordan out of the corner of her eye. "That is hardly helpful in this matter," she hissed, and though Tore glared at her in response, he did refrain from further comments.

Riordan took a deep breath. "If King Cailan is dead, Commander, and Duncan as well, who is it that is refusing our entry into Ferelden? The Queen?"

" _Non_ ," Geraud said with a shake of his head, "or rather, it is not technically the Queen. According to the border guard, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir as set himself as Regent in the wake of the King's death. I suspect the order to close the border came from him, and him alone."

Francois let out a low groan, pushing his hand through his thick mane of hair. "Then we're, to put it bluntly, screwed," he said. "Everyone knows how hostile Loghain Mac Tir is towards Orlais, and he has made it no secret that he holds no love for the Grey Wardens. There's no way we'll be able to get into Ferelden now… unless we want to _force_ our way in."

"Why don't we?" Myrna asked with the pragmatism of elves. She propped a hand up on her hip. " _We_ are Grey Wardens. _They_ are suffering a Blight. Are we truly going to let one man dictate whether or not we do our duty?"

"It might sound simple enough, but we must not forget who this _one man_ is," Geraud said tersely. "My own father was among the chevaliers that fought during the rebellion, and I've heard stories about Loghain Mac Tir that would make your hair stand on end. From my own understanding, the years since have _not_ made him any softer. We must tread light on this one, Myrna. Until the archdemon shows himself and reveals this to be the Blight it truly is, simply storming the gates will not be in the Order's best interest – nor Ferelden's."

Riordan looked at Geraud, his gray eyes serious. "I agree with Myrna, though," he said. "We cannot simply stand aside. Our brothers and sisters gave their lives for Ferelden. To do nothing is to dishonor their sacrifice."

Geraud nodded – his Senior Wardens were telling him nothing that he wasn't already aware of. After a moment of thought, he looked to the three other Senior Wardens. "Spread yourselves out amongst the others and inform them – quietly – that we will begin laying camp. I will handle the chevaliers, but under no circumstances are they permitted to know what we have discussed here. Riordan, I would speak with you further."

Riordan saw the surprise in Francois and Myrna's eyes at that – Tore appeared indifferent – but they merely saluted and returned to the majority of the gathered army. Riordan remained, looking at Geraud with a touch of hesitance.

The Commander set his mouth in a tight line, pressing his lips together. "Riordan. I know it has been many years since you lived there last, but you were born in Highever, were you not?"

"Yes, Commander," Riordan nodded.

"Do you think you would be able to pass yourself through the country undetected, and make for Denerim? The more information we have, the stronger our position will be. I wish to ascertain the exact state of affairs in Ferelden – both in regards to the Blight, and in regards to Teyrn Loghain."

Riordan couldn't say that he was surprised. Although it was a matter of course that Grey Wardens did not entangle themselves in the politics of nations, the Wardens also did whatever they had to in order to protect the people of Thedas from the Blights. One way for another this Blight would expand, and eventually the Wardens would face it down – Riordan only hoped that they wouldn't lose the entire country of Ferelden in the process.

"I understand," he said with a nod. He wondered why Geraud had dismissed the others before speaking to him about this; it was hardly a task that needed to be kept from the other Senior Wardens.

He got his answer a moment later.

"I assume," Geraud said in a much lower voice, "that you kept continued correspondence with Duncan following his promotion to Warden-Commander?"

"I did, yes." A fresh pain struck Riordan, a reminder that there would be nothing more of that correspondence. No more veiled jokes and sarcasms, no more weary laments about choices made, no fresh dispenses of or requests for advice.

"Half a year ago you were also present for a Joining that Duncan performed in Ferelden, correct?"

Riordan's gaze snapped to Geraud's in instant attention. "I was."

The Commander crossed his arms over his chest and nodded once. "I see that I have your attention now," he said seriously. "Most of the new recruits from that Joining were sent to Jader or to Ansburg for their training, but Duncan kept one of them with him in Ferelden – he insisted upon it, in fact. Do you remember him?"

Riordan gave the barest of nods. "I do. I recall being surprised by Duncan's insistence that he stay within Ferelden, though there were hardly enough men to oversee extended training. I asked him why."

"And did he tell you?"

Riordan gave the briefest of hesitations before answering with another slow nod. "I had to push him a bit – at first he insisted it was because the lad's training with the Templars was enough to qualify him, but as he was not the first recruit we have ever appropriated from their Order I was not convinced that this was the only reason. He made me swear to keep the truth a secret, Commander. I hold such vows with utmost importance, even after death."

"And this is why I am giving _you_ this task, Riordan, and no other." Geraud reached out and firmly grasped Riordan's arm. "We have only the word of the Teyrn that _every_ Grey Warden perished at Ostagar, but I find it difficult to believe that Duncan would have risked both the King and this boy on the battlefield at once. Determine whether he lives or not, Riordan – _that_ is the task I am putting on your shoulders."

The imploring look within his eyes was enough to reassure Riordan that no breach of trust need to be committed in this case, for Geraud already knew Duncan's close-kept secret. Still, this request bordered on surprise even more than the first. If Geraud had simply asked him to find out if _any_ Wardens had survived he would have accepted it without question. That he was being so specific in his request, singling out this one young man above all others, spoke of something deeper in the works. "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Commander," Riordan said quietly, "but are these _your_ orders?"

Geraud narrowed his eyes and gazed at Riordan shrewdly – then released a harsh bark of mirthless laughter. "You always have been too perceptive for your own good, Riordan," he said. "That trait may well get you in trouble one of these days – or perhaps I should say _more_ trouble." He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. "No. These orders come from someone with higher authority than I, and that is all I will say on the matter. Will you accept the task that I have given you, Senior Warden? I recognize that this is no small feat I ask of you."

Though Riordan paused before nodding his assent, it was merely ceremonial – he had already known from the moment the task had first been posed to him that he would be accepting it. How could he not? The first bit was common sense, and the second…he knew what the boy had meant to Duncan. He would honor his friend in this way, then, by protecting whatever legacy he may have left behind, if that legacy were truly alive. Which they didn't know for sure, and the odds were certainly stacked against it.

But then, didn't the very fact that any Warden lived proved that the odds could be beaten?

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The future can never be fully determined. Those who claim certainty in knowing what it holds are liars and charlatans; the future is an ever-changing, malleable force that twists and twines its shape around the events of the past that makes up its base.

The art of _predicting_ said future lies more in the ability to guess and plan according rather than the ability to know exactly what will come to be. One event can spawn endless possibilities; there are some who have a far greater ability to see each of these to the end of their road than others. In times of war, these men and women become the generals, the commanders, the ones ensconced in legend and chronicle.

Then there are those who remain within the shadows, working their predictions and their wills from behind the scenes. These are the ones who play their quiet games, deftly maneuvering their pawns and knights, arranging them just so in order to set up the perfect move. No matter how many centuries it takes to achieve.

For it is the past that shapes the future – and the past that can never truly be left behind.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The waters of Lake Calenhad were still. Still, unmoving, a quiet mirror reflecting back everything that the elvhen woman staring blankly into its depths did not want to see. Her own face, eyes rimmed red with tears, cheeks flushed with anger, robes torn and stained with substances best left unidentified. And behind her, the looming shadowed presence of Kinloch Hold itself. The Circle Tower.

Home. Prison. Tomb.

She could still hear the screams, both human and demonic, echoing in her ears. When she closed her eyes she could see the monstrous, twisted forms of people she had once known. Enchanters who had long-passed their Harrowing, apprentices who would never have the chance. A shudder rippled through her at the memory of fighting her way through once-familiar halls to the top of the tower.

Yllia had been unsurprised to find Uldred behind the uprising, and even less so to discover that he'd not only turned to blood magic, but had fully embraced it. It had been no act of desperation for him, not like it had been for Jowan, and he'd done it in the most common of ways – making a pact with a demon, unleashing horrors upon his fellow mages.

His death, she did not regret.

If she had only gotten there sooner…

"Yllia?"

Yllia's head snapped up, and she half-turned to look at the silver-haired woman approaching her. There was no mistaking the look of concern on Wynne's face, and Yllia felt a stab of guilt. After the confrontation at the top of the Tower she'd led the group in silence back down the levels, with Alistair helping the injured First Enchanter along with them, and had curtly informed Knight-Commander Greagoir that the issue had been dealt with and the Annulment would be unneeded.

Then she'd turned on her heel and stormed out of the Tower, leaving her companions standing with templars and mages alike and without a clue as to what to do next.

She was honestly surprised to find that it was Wynne who had come after her, though she felt a touch of relief that it hadn't been Alistair. The senior enchanter had proven invaluable as they'd fought their way through demons, abominations, and maleficar in their climb of the Tower, her prowess at healing (far better than Yllia's own) saving them from more than a few close calls. Yllia had always admired Wynne, and though she'd never had her for an instructor herself, she was glad to see that the older woman had survived Ostagar. She'd seen her there from a distance, though hadn't had the chance to speak with her before everything had gone wrong.

"Wynne," she said quietly, averting her eyes slightly. That gaze of Wynne's was too _knowing_ , too _certain._ And too reflective of what Yllia herself was feeling. "Is everything all right?"

"I thought that was to be my question to ask," Wynne said with a level gaze. "Your companions are worried about you. That Alistair boy, and Leliana, both have been trying to figure out if they should come after you. Only your mabari's growls have kept them at bay – I do believe he's determined you needed time with your thoughts."

The thought of Rhys defending her privacy brought the barest lift to Yllia's lips, but it vanished within a fleet moment. "I'll have to thank him," she said quietly. "I'm just…not sure I'm ready to talk to either Alistair or Leliana. They'll want to ask how I feel…they'll want to try to get me to _talk_."

"And talking would be so bad?" Wynne came to stand beside the younger mage, her keen eyes upon her.

"I don't know." Yllia sighed, touching the tips of her fingers together in front of her. "Maybe not, but…they wouldn't understand. They don't know what it's like to hate and love a place and its people at the same time, to want to escape from them but to want them to stay safe. And I don't know how to talk to them about it so that they _could_ understand."

"So you came out here in order to be alone with your thoughts," Wynne guessed.

Yllia nodded, eyes downcast. "I couldn't stay in there," she said quietly. "I just…I needed air. They were going to call for the Right of Annulment, Wynne. That's why I had to find First Enchanter Irving and stop Uldred. I couldn't let them do it. Not when there was a chance some could still be saved."

Sudden fear gripped her, and she looked at the older woman. "They _are_ calling off the Right… aren't they? Knight-Commander Greagoir said that if I brought the First Enchanter to him, he promised…"

"He's retracting the request as we speak," Wynne said, cutting Yllia off in mid-ramble with a hand on her arm. "The Knight-Commander didn't want to call on the Right anymore than we did, Yllia – it was simply that it was the only option he had. Until _you_ came along. You saved us all, Yllia Surana."

"Not all." Yllia looked at Wynne regretfully, thinking back to the ones that she hadn't been able to save, like Niall. She'd hardly known him in life, but he'd died doing everything he could to save the Circle. Yet she couldn't help but bitterly think that his sacrifice would be swept aside, just another mage dead at the hands of a demon.

"We honor the ones who are gone by living our lives to their fullest," Wynne said softly. "The dead cannot be brought back, but they can be remembered."

"I suppose so," Yllia said heavily. She reached up and pushed her hands through her hair – her careful ties had come out, allowing the strands to once again hang free, and for the first time ever she couldn't find it in her to care about fixing them. "Remembering…it doesn't seem like enough, does it?"

"It never does, no." Wynne shook her head in agreement and looked out over the water herself, and for a moment it seemed as if her thoughts were centered elsewhere, somewhere in the past rather than the present or future.

"Do they know yet how many survived?" Yllia asked quietly. " _Who_ survived?"

"Several of the mages and templars managed to secure themselves in the supply tunnels," Wynne said, "but it will be awhile before they have a full headcount."

Yllia nodded slightly, and then her shoulders tensed. "What about the basement levels?" she asked quietly. "The…confinement cells?"

Emotion flickered in Wynne's eyes, and she released a soft sigh. "There's evidence that the demons managed to get into the basement before we were able to erect the barrier. The locking mechanisms were damaged…they're working to get it open, but until they do we won't know anything. And I imagine you don't have the time to wait, do you?"

Yllia closed her eyes, then shook her head. "No, we don't," she said. "We've lingered here too long already." She launched into a quickly edited version of the events in Redcliffe and what had brought them to the Circle in the first place, leaving out a couple details (such as Jowan's offer to use blood magic if the mages couldn't help). "I need to talk to the First Enchanter. We've already been delayed longer than I thought." And she'd forgotten about Connor. Maker, she'd been so wrapped up in her hurt and self-deprecation over the events at that Circle that she had momentarily forgotten about the young boy suffering at the possession of a demon. That thought alone made her ill. She turned on her heel to hurry back to the Tower.

Wynne's hand on her arm stayed her momentarily. "I'll speak with Irving and Greagoir," the Senior Enchanter said. "You gather your companions, and make preparations for our departure."

That brought Yllia up short, and she stared at the other woman. "Our?"

Wynne smiled, a gleam in her eye. "Unless, of course, you'd rather this old woman keep her mind to her own business and not offer her services to your cause?"

Disbelief shone in Yllia's expression. "You're hardly old, Wynne. It's just…you want to come _with_ us?" she asked. "But Wynne, _why?_ I would have thought you'd rather stay here and help the Circle get settled."

"The Circle has more than enough able-bodied healers that they can do without me," Wynne explained, then sighed softly. "And between you and me, Yllia, after Ostagar and now this… I'm not certain I could bear being locked within these walls with the memories of these horrors. Most of them did not see what we did. The Circle is my home, and yet…" Her voice trailed off as she looked to the monolithic Tower another moment. "You understand?"

Yllia did. She understood too well, and she knew that there was really only one answer she could give to the elder mage. "I'd be honored if you would join us, Wynne," she said softly. "Your skills would be greatly appreciated…as would your company."

Wynne smiled at her, a strained gesture yet sincere nonetheless, and then nodded. "Then go inform your companions. I'll make the arrangements for your aid – given everything you've done for us, it _will_ be given."

Relief flooded Yllia's blue eyes, filling them with light and warmth that hadn't been there moments earlier, and the young Warden mage headed back towards the Tower.

Wynne remained where she was for a moment, watching Yllia quietly disappear through the massive stone and metal doors. Then she placed her hand over her heart and closed her eyes.

"Just give me a bit more time," she murmured. "Let me see this lost bird safely out of her cage."

She sensed, more than felt or heard, a soft hum in the back of her mind – but beyond that nothing more. Just the disembodied sensation that her words had been accepted. She could only hope they would be granted as well.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Leaning against one of the walls on the ground level of Kinloch Hold, Alistair was reminded of one of the many reasons why he was glad he had not had to take templar vows. As a recruit he'd been brought to the Circle on more than one occasion, to be shown where most of the templars of Ferelden carried out their tours, at least in those beginning years before they were entrusted to circuits and smaller posts. The massive spire of Kinloch Hold had been impressive the first time he'd seen it, but upon reaching the actual tower he had realized what those living within the walls already knew – that Kinloch Hold served as both sanctuary and prison, not only for the mages but also for the templars stationed within her walls.

It was little wonder that Yllia held such apprehension whenever she mentioned the Circle. He could never be too sure if she was glad to be free of the place or if she missed it, and had finally come to the conclusion during their forced march that it was a combination of both. He could understand that. He had a similar feeling in regards to Redcliffe – although he had no desire to return to a life of living in the stables and kennels, forced to make himself scarce whenever there was the possibility of someone _important_ catching a glimpse of his face (wouldn't want anyone to recognize Maric's bastard, of course), he still considered the village and castle to ultimately be home.

And following that vein of thought, it was even less surprising when she stormed out of the Tower without so much as a backwards glance to any of them after telling the Knight-Commander that Uldred was dead and the demons gone. He fought not to shudder. He thought Redcliffe had been bad, with the undead swarms and Connor's possession, but the Circle had brought him face to face with abominations and true demons. Things of nightmare that he would have preferred _stayed_ in the realm of the dreams.

Demons never were content to do that, though, were they?

And it wasn't just the demons. They'd passed a number of corpses and faced more than a few thralls, being forced to cut each of them down. And with each one he'd seen the pain in Yllia's eyes. These were people she'd known, people she'd grown up with. He'd seen her when they'd come out of the Fade, the look on her face when she realized that nothing could be done for that mage. He'd asked her if she'd known him, and her response had been a brief 'not really'. But his death had still struck deep.

The worst hadn't been involving a mage, however, but a templar. He'd been shocked when he'd realized that it was Cullen behind that barrier – nearly the same age, they'd gone through training together. He'd always been one of the templars who sought to protect rather than persecute, and to hear such venomous anger come from him…

Not to mention how he reacted to Yllia's presence. Alistair wasn't so innocent that he didn't get what was going on _there_ , nor did he miss the horror on Yllia's face as she realized it as well. He'd wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her – but what words were there that he could have said? What comfort could he have possibly offered?

He glanced towards the main doors, then over at Leliana, who was distracting herself with conversation with one of the other mages who had stayed behind the barrier after Wynne had joined them. Sten stood stoically off to his side, his expression unchanging, having hardly spoken two words since they'd begun their pursuit of the maleficar. Not unusual for Sten, that. Although was it just him, or did the Qunari seem tenser since they'd entered the Tower?

Nah. Had to just be him. What did he know about Qunari emotions?

The last member of their little band was pacing back and forth between the door and where Alistair stood. He'd approached a couple of times, concerned over how long Yllia had been gone, but each time Rhys had bared his fangs and growled deep. Figuring the mabari would have a better idea than _he_ did about whether or not his mistress was in trouble Alistair had stopped after the second attempt, but that didn't keep him from worrying.

The door opened then, interrupting Alistair's thoughts as he straightened up. They all looked towards Yllia as she walked into the room, and he immediately gave her a searching look. She _seemed_ okay, no longer as tense and angry as she'd been when she'd stormed out. Still, something about her seemed…off.

Rhys walked up to him and promptly shoved his head under her hand, prompting her to obediently stroke his head and behind his ears. She gave the mabari a soft look before raising her head to look at Alistair. They stared at each other for a moment, but when he started to speak, she broke eye contact and looked instead to Leliana as the redhead ended her conversation and approached them.

"Yllia?" Leliana asked, voice tinged with concern.

"I'm fine," Yllia said, giving Leliana a smile. "I just needed a few moments. I explained the situation in Redcliffe to Wynne, and she's talking to the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander about the lyrium and mage support needed for the spell. She's also going to be coming with us."

"With us?" Alistair looked surprised. Not that he had anything against the older mage coming with, but…well, he hadn't thought she'd want to. She wasn't exactly _young_ , after all. And the Circle clearly meant a lot to her. He figured she'd rather stay with them now that all of the demons and whatnot were gone. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean…is she going to be able to keep up?"

"I kept up with you well enough climbing all of those stairs, didn't I?"

Alistair jumped at Wynne's sharp retort, half-turning to see the older woman standing off to the side, one eyebrow raised and a hand resting firmly on her hip.

"Oh! I wasn't…I didn't mean, I mean, I wasn't implying…" Alistair felt the heat rising in his cheeks, and it only compounded when the stern look vanished from Wynne's face, replaced by one of mirthful amusement. His blushing only worsened when she started chuckling.

"I've done my fair share of traveling over the years," Wynne said, smiling at him. "I think you'll find no need to be concerned about my ability to 'keep up', as you put it."

Alistair coughed. "Right," he said. "Of course. I knew you would be. I was just, you know, making sure."

"Right." Yllia looked at him dryly, then turned to Wynne. "What did Irving and Greagoir say?"

"You'll have your lyrium and you assistance," Wynne said. "Greagoir assigned a few of the templars to prepare boats to cut down on traveling time. You do realize that if you succeed in banishing this demon, the boy won't be able to keep living the life he's been living? Now that the Circle knows of him, they'll have no choice but to bring him here."

Yllia nodded. "I know," she said quietly. "But the other options… aren't worth the risk." Then way she glanced down made Alistair wonder if she'd told Wynne about Jowan and the blood magic. Well, if she hadn't he wasn't going to mention it – it wasn't exactly his place.

"Are we going, then?" Leliana inquired as they were silently joined by Sten.

Yllia nodded. "As soon as everything is ready," she said. Her lips pressed together tightly. "We've lost a full day here… I just hope that when we get back to Redcliffe, everything will still be the way we left it."

Leliana touched her arm and gave her a gentle, encouraging smile. "We will make it," she said. "We've come this far, have we not?"

It was when Yllia looked at Leliana to tentatively return her smile that it suddenly hit Alistair what was different about his fellow Warden – when she smiled it didn't reach her eyes as it normally did. Her entire expression was strained and forced, the dullness in her eyes proof of it. She was only pretending that she was all right – and now Alistair had the fresh concern over how long it would be before the weight of it became too much to handle?

Alistair knew then, as he stood there watching Yllia smile and pretend, that he would do _anything_ to bring that light to her eyes again and keep it there. What had started as camaraderie in Ostagar had been steadily growing into something more, and there was no more denying that to himself. He was her sword and shield, and if she would have him, he would gladly be her support as well.

Whether he would be able to gather his courage about him and tell her… well, that was another matter completely.


	17. Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wasn't going to be talked out of it. And with Connor's life at stake, he couldn't bring himself to try. - Alistair

The trip that had taken them over a day to accomplish on foot was done in half that time by boat, the small vessel able to cut a straight path from Kinloch Hold down to Redcliffe's port. They were all relieved to find that despite the demon still in possession of Connor the undead attacks had not resumed, and Ser Perth was waiting for them on the docks when they arrived.

"Warden," the knight said with a nod to Yllia asked he offered her his hand in getting out of the boat. She took it, unused to traveling by water and finding her legs a bit unsteady. Alistair in contrast jumped almost gracefully out of the vessel and quickly moved to help tie it to the dock. It had taken two ketches to transport their party, plus the required lyrium, mages to use it, and templars to guard the mages. It was Yllia's first time riding in the sailing craft – the vessels were used only to traverse the great length of Lake Calenhad, and mere apprentices were never afforded the right to them.

"Ser Perth," she said, glad to see that he appeared to be recovering from the battle a few nights (had it really been that long?) past. "How's the situation here?"

"Unchanged, my lady," the tall knight said. "My men and I have maintained constant surveillance on the castle under Bann Teagan's orders, but there's been little activity. The…" He hesitated, eyes flickering once to the templars before settling back on her, "young lord retreated to the upper floor of the castle, near the arl's rooms, and has not come down."

Yllia wasn't sure if she ought to feel relieved or worried by that. On the one hand it meant the demon hadn't made any moves while they were gone. On the other hand, _why_ hadn't it? She filed the question away for later contemplation if needed. She hoped it wouldn't be.

"And the companion I left behind?" Yllia asked. "Morrigan hasn't caused any difficulties, has she?"

Here Ser Perth gave a wry grin. "Short of having every one of my men fumbling his words and blushing like a schoolboy at least once during your absence, no. But I imagine she'll be glad to see you. I get the sense that playing jailor hasn't been her favorite thing."

"Jailor?" The word came out a bit more sharply than she intended, giving Ser Perth a cause for surprise.

"Yes – that mage, the one who was in the Arl's dungeon? After you left Arlessa Isolde insisted that he be locked up again until your return. Bann Teagan interceded and stopped her from putting him back in the dungeon itself, so he's been under house arrest in one of the storage rooms on the first floor. I've got a couple of my men stationed outside the door, but your companion's taken it upon herself to be added to the guard – more to keep an eye on my men, I suspect, than on the mage."

Yllia did her best not to let her annoyance show. It was perfectly reasonable, she tried to tell herself, for Isolde to not want Jowan wandering about. _She_ would have been reluctant to do so if it weren't for knowing Jowan as well as she did. She glanced over her shoulder, but Wynne was in conversation with Irving – the First Enchanter had surprised them all by insisting that he accompany them, despite his recent ordeal. Greagoir had been reluctant to agree, but had eventually acquiesced – though only after it had been pointed out to him that with Irving going they didn't have to send as many other mages.

"Lead me to them, Ser Perth," she said, motioning to get Alistair's attention away from helping with the boats and over to her. Leliana and Sten were already waiting to go up to the castle, and Rhys was glued back to her side – wet, as he'd decided to jump out of the boat before it was fully docked and swim to shore, but at her side. Wynne caught her eye briefly and nodded towards the mages, which Yllia took to mean she'd join them later. This was fine with Yllia – she wasn't yet ready for Wynne or Irving to find out Jowan was there.

Ser Perth brought them through a side entrance that let in closer to the room where Jowan was being held, rather than to the main hall where Teagan and Isolde were apparently waiting. The sight that greeted them was exactly as the knight had described – two guards standing on either side of a barred door, and Morrigan standing across from them, holding a posture that was no doubt responsible for the reddening of the guards' cheeks and the slight shifting as they stood.

Morrigan looked up as Yllia approached, moving her hand from her hip and standing up straight to look at the other mage. "'Tis about time," she said with no little irritation. "I thought you said it would only take a day. In fact, I believe you were _certain_ it would take no longer than that, and yet here you are, delayed."

"Sorry we couldn't keep to your schedule," Alistair said sarcastically.

Yllia had a hard time keeping the smile off of her face – she had to admit, she'd missed hearing Alistair and Morrigan bicker like a pair of siblings. She wasn't going to admit to that, though, it was likely to just make Morrigan search for even more opportunities to aggravate Alistair, which she was sure the warrior Warden would not appreciate.

"We had an unexpected delay at the Circle," Yllia said, catching Morrigan's eye and giving her what she hoped the other mage would interpret as a I'll-tell-you-later look. She didn't want to get into those details in the middle of a hallway in Redcliffe Castle where a demon was lurking about. She didn't know if demons could hear through walls and floors and she didn't particularly want to test that theory now. "Where's Jowan?"

"In there." Morrigan inclined her head towards the guarded door, delivering a contemptuous look at the two guards in the process. They cringed, looking less as if they were thinking with what lay between their legs and more like how they were going to keep from _losing_ those vital parts. "The _esteemed_ Arlessa refused to have him wandering about; I opted to stay close in case they changed their mind about putting him back down in the dungeon."

Yllia looked at the door, then stepped up to the two guards and looked up at them. "Let me in."

The guards looked at each other. "With all due respect, Warden," the older of the two ventured, "we are under orders from the Arlessa to let no one in to see the prisoner."

Yllia scowled in irritation. She put her hands on her hips, drawing herself up to her full height. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear," she said, "since you seem to be under the misconception that I was _asking_. I want to see the mage. _Now_."

"Might want to do what she says," Alistair suggested casually from behind her. "She's got a tendency to set things on fire when she gets mad."

The younger guard's eyes widened and eyed her warily, and she gave him her best, most innocent smile. For some reason, that gave both guards cause to hurriedly do what she asked – though she was sure the presence of Ser Perth and his lack of objection had something to do with it.

She stepped inside the room and let them shut the door behind her. Odd, how she didn't flinch at the sound of that damning click. Before leaving the Tower – in what she was coming to think of as her Other Life – she would have lost it over even the _thought_ of being locked up in a room, caged like some sort of animal.

Jowan was sitting atop a storage crate, legs drawn up with his heels resting on the edge of another, arms clasped around his knees. Lanky strands of black hair hung over his face, the bangs far longer than he normally wore, and his violet-grey eyes were staring blankly down at his feet. The sight made Yllia's heart ache. Jowan had never been the most outgoing person, but he'd never seemed so _listless_ , either. He didn't look up when the door closed, or even flinch. Yllia wasn't sure he'd even heard it.

"Jowan?" She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump in surprise. He swung his legs down and immediately rose to his feet.

"You're back," he said in that breathless tone that said he'd been waiting but didn't want it to be obvious. "I was starting to worry...starting to think you weren't going to return. What happened?"

"The templars gave us the lyrium," Yllia replied, glancing around for a place to sit and finding only more storage crates. She dropped herself unceremoniously onto one, giving Jowan leave to reclaim his. "The First Enchanter also came with us, as well as a few other mages and templars to keep an eye on them – they don't know about you yet." She said that last bit in response to the widening of Jowan's eyes and the fear she saw in their depths.

He swallowed hard, and looked down. "But they will," he said softly. "Even if _you_ don't tell them, they'll find out about me. I have to do this spell, after all. Then it'll be back to the Tower for me, where they'll either kill me or…or give me the brand."

"I won't let them do that." Jowan looked up in surprise and saw the fierce look of determination in Yllia's eyes. She looked at him steadily. "I promise, Jowan. I won't let them hurt you. _They're_ the ones at fault for what happened at the Tower, backing you into a corner like that. And it's not as if you hurt anyone in your escape, even if you did use blood magic."

"But I'm not _innocent_ , Yllia," Jowan said softly. "I poisoned the Arl. Me, with my own hands. I put the poison in his drink before it was served to him, and _kept_ doing it until he collapsed. Just the way I was told to do it."

Yllia reached out and placed her hand on Jowan's wrist, her fingers resting lightly against his pulse point. She could feel it fluttering erratically, and hoped it was just due to nerves. "I know you, Jowan," she said quietly. "You're not a bad person. You don't always make the best choices, true, but you're _not_ evil. And I'm not going to let anyone say you are, _especially_ not the Arlessa. That woman can't see evil even when it's right in front of her face."

She shook her head. "And I'm not even sure if you'd be the Templars' first priority right now," she said grimly. "Do you remember Uldred and his lot, back at the Tower?"

Jowan's expression darkened. "How could I forget?" he asked softly. "Every time I was around one of them I felt ill. I tried to steer clear of them as much as I could. Why?"

The petite elf sighed, reaching up to finger a lock of loose hair, making Jowan notice for the first time that Yllia wasn't wearing her hair in its usual style. It was longer than it looked when it wasn't bound up and out of the way. Another indication of how much things had changed in such a short amount of time.

"It turns out that all of the rumors were true," Yllia said quietly. "Uldred and his people _were_ blood mages. They staged a coup on the Circle, took the templars by surprise…tore open the Veil and unleashed a horde of demons upon everyone who didn't join them. Apprentices and mages alike were being made in abominations… the templars couldn't get it under control. Some of the mages managed to get to the first level and seal off the rest of the Tower, but the Knight-Commander had to call for the Right of Annulment."

Jowan's back went rigid as he sat up straight, the blood draining from his face as he stared at her in open-mouthed horror. "But…but they can't! And you said, didn't you say that some mages came with you?"

"Knight-Commander Greagoir called it off," Yllia said, holding up a hand to quiet him, "after we were able to make our way to the top of the tower and defeat Uldred. Greagoir didn't _want_ to call for the Right, I could see that well enough when we were talking, but he was backed into a corner. He promised me that if I could bring him First Enchanter Irving, then he would call it off. I did, and he did. The Circle is safe for now – those that survived, anyway." Her expression grew strained.

"Yllia…?"

Jowan's hesitant voice drew Yllia out of her thoughts, thankfully before they could grow too morbid, and she flushed at having gotten lost in her thoughts like that. "Sorry," she said softly. "It's just… a lot more people died than survived. I'm not sure how many. They hadn't gotten to all of the survivors by the time we had to leave. Wynne thinks that some of the mages got into the storage tunnels for safety…and the lower levels, the basement, were all sealed off at some point during the attack…"

"The basement?" Jowan cut in quietly, and the two of them spared a moment to look at each other, really look, in the way they'd used to when they were children and thought they could read each other's minds.

"I don't know," Yllia replied quietly. "They still hadn't opened the doors when we had to go. Not a high priority, I suppose."

"I'm sorry," Jowan said softly, and he meant the words. "You were always closer to him than I was."

Yllia bit her bottom lip delicately, then released the building sigh and shook her head. "I can't dwell on it," she said. "I doubt the demons got down that far… and we've got issues to deal with here. You're _sure_ you can cast this spell, Jowan? Using lyrium?"

Jowan nodded. "The spell itself has _nothing_ to do with blood magic," he said, emphasizing the word 'nothing'. "It only requires a certain level of power, and blood is usually the quickest way to get it."

"Where did you find this spell?" Yllia couldn't help her curiosity. Although there were several spells capable of sending someone into the Fade, and she even knew a couple of them, the spell that Jowan was suggesting was incredibly precise and – she felt slightly shamed to think this – beyond his skill level. Hence, most likely, the need for a power catalyst.

Jowan reached up and brushed back his hair from his face, attempting to tuck it behind his ear to keep it out of the way. He failed, the long strands flopping back over his eyes. "It was in the book that I learned blood magic from," he said quietly. "I think… I don't think anyone's ever _tried_ it without using blood magic for power, and that's why it was in there. But there's no reason the lyrium can't work just as well." He gave her a pleading look. "I can do this, Yllia. Please give me a chance."

Yllia shook her head. "I wasn't going to suggest you not do it," she reassured him. "No one else seems to have any better ideas. I just wanted to know a bit more about it, since I'm going to be the one you send in there." At the wide-eyed look he gave her, she managed a slight smile, lifting one corner of her lips. "Did you think I would allow anyone else to risk themselves? It won't be the first time I've been to the Fade." Her expression darkened. "Or the first demon I've had to face."

It was on the tip of Jowan's tongue to ask Yllia what she meant, but something about the look in her eyes stopped him. It wasn't a look she'd ever had before her Harrowing; before he'd abused her trust to gain her help in destroying his phylactery.

Neither of them were the same as they'd once been, he noted with sadness. Strange, how one could spend their lives one way for so many years, and then have all of that changed so quickly.

A knock on the door interrupted both of their thoughts; the guards had decided that Yllia had been in there quite long enough, and her own companions (namely Alistair) were getting restless. Yllia bid good-bye to Jowan and left the room, steeling herself as she did so. She was going to need all of her nerves to face Isolde and Teagan again – not to mention Irving and the templars when she told them just who would be performing the spell.

Jowan watched until the door closed behind her. Then he let out a soft sigh and lowered his head into his hands. Was he ready for this? Was he ready to face his mistakes?

It didn't matter.

He'd have to do it anyway.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Anders leaned against the tree, letting his head fall back against the trunk as he slowly caught his breath. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the morning sun fall across his face, and a slow smile began to spread across his face.

He'd done it.

It had been two days since he'd made his escape. He still didn't know how the enchantments on his cell door had fallen, or exactly when the lock had been tripped. He suspected it had something to do with the templar – who he was starting to think hadn't been a templar at all – that had spoken to him. _Whoever_ they were mattered little to him; not even the strange things the woman had said could override his sheer _joy_ at being able to stand out in the sun once again.

The sun wasn't the only source of Anders' elation. The Circle had been in the midst of a crisis of some kind when he'd made his way up from the dungeons. Templars and mages alike had been running for the upper levels, not a one of them sparing a second glance at the limping, disheveled mage who had pressed himself against the nearest wall the moment he'd been clear of that damnable staircase. He suppressed a shudder as he recalled the agonizingly slow climb of the stairs, the muscles of his lower back and legs screaming in protest from movement they hadn't had to use in months. He'd forced himself to walk several times a day in his cell to keep his legs from weakening, but ascending stairs was another matter.

And the entire time he'd done so with his heart in his throat, worrying that he was taking too long, that a templar would come tromping down the stairs at any moment and catch him, and that would be the end of it. He dreaded to think of what they would have done to him if they'd caught him escaping solitary. Just because Harrowed mages weren't _supposed_ to be made Tranquil didn't mean that they might not make an exception. He found that if he got on someone's nerves enough, there was _always_ an exception.

He hadn't been caught, though, and while everyone was running and looking in one direction, he high-tailed his way out of the Tower in the other. Anders felt a twinge of regret at not being able to see his friends one more time, but there hadn't been time. He hadn't had time to do anything but escape with only the tattered, stained robes on his back. It was the first time, he realized, that he hadn't even been able to bring his personal belongings with him. Not that there were many, but the few he did possess …they were precious to him.

That is, if they even existed. For all he knew, the templars had destroyed or burned them all after locking him away. All he had left to him now was his freedom, and to the Void with them all if they thought he was going to give that up without a fight.

Luck appeared to be on his side, at least; two days out and he had yet to see any sign of the templars. This meant that either no one had noticed his escape yet, or else whatever had been going on at the Tower when he'd left was taking up all the templars' attention. Whatever reason it was he was thankful for it. It gave him a chance to put as much distance between the Circle and the templars as he could. He'd have made even better time if he hadn't had to skirt around a group traveling along the road towards Redcliffe the night before in order to avoid being seen, but he'd take every bit that he could get. The larger the head start before they began tracking with his phylactery, the better off he was.

One day, he was going to find a way to destroy that blasted little vial.

Not today, though. For now he had to keep moving forward. The best choice would be to leave Ferelden, hop passage on a ship and make his way across the Waking Sea to either Cumberland in Nevarra, or one of the ports in the Free Marches. That meant going either east to Gwaren or north to Amaranthine. Both were equal distance from where he was, roughly – it all depended on whether he wanted to rough it through the forests or follow the Highway. He had time to decide; first things first was getting a decent meal and a change of clothes that didn't scream Apostate. And…maybe a bit of medicine until the magebane worked its way out of his system and he could use his magic again.

Breath caught by now, Anders stepped away from the tree, preparing to make for the nearest farmstead. After a step he paused and turned slightly, looking back in the direction he'd come from. The flat, sparsely treed land around him allowed a view of the towering spire of Kinloch Hold despite how far away it was. The tall, dark monolith rose up into the sky, and Anders swore he could feel a chill wash over him as he looked at it.

 _They'll understand,_ he told himself again, thinking of the friends he was leaving behind. Karl, who always knew the right thing to say to lift his spirits. Jowan, his exact opposite, who relished the safety of the Circle even as it worked against him. And Yllia, who greeted him with a smile each time he returned as if he had never left at all, who shared his dreams of freedom but wouldn't leave Jowan alone.

They'd understand. They always had.

Anders turned away from the Tower and set off to the north, the Highway, and freedom.

 _Good-bye_. _And good luck_.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"I am fairly certain I do not envy Yllia at this moment," Leliana murmured in an aside to Alistair half an hour later. Alistair gave a nod of assent, his eyes on his diminutive partner as she listened to a double lecture from both Wynne and the First Enchanter Irving on the other side of the main hall. To say that either elder mage had reacted calmly upon finding out just who was going to be performing the spell was a gross distortion of the facts.

"I think I'm going to second that," Alistair replied, crossing his arms over his chest. From the angle they were standing he couldn't get a good look at either Irving or Wynne's faces, but he could see Yllia's, and the longer the other two spoke the stonier her expression was becoming. He noted, idly, that the templars were staying out of this particular discussion, though one of them was glaring daggers in Jowan's direction.

They'd brought the blood mage in only minutes earlier, and now he stood to the side, head hanging with a guard standing on either side of him. His hands were bound in front of him – Isolde's insistence, he figured, because it was common knowledge that a mage could not cast without full use of both hands. Speaking of the arlessa, she was standing at the front of the room next to Teagan, wringing her hands together and looking altogether anxious. He couldn't blame her. While Yllia was busy getting chewed out by her former colleagues, Connor was demon-possessed in the upper levels of the castle.

"And _this_ proves my point precisely." Alistair jumped at the suddenness of Morrigan's muttered words to his left, startled by the nearness. He hadn't noticed her enter the room, too focused on what was happening with Yllia. The wild witch was leaning against the same wall he and Leliana were standing at, her amber-hued eyes casually fixed on the scene before them as well. "We are wasting time while they squabble about morals and propriety, whereas if it were _me_ I would have had the spell cast and done with."

"Well, given that he's a blood mage and a fugitive apostate, you can't really _blame_ them for being upset about it," Alistair pointed out. Although even he had to agree that the lecture had gone on for awhile now, and he wasn't a particular fan of the frown that was growing increasingly deeper on Yllia's face. Morrigan opened her mouth to reply, and Alistair shook his head. "No, wait, don't tell me. You think he ought to be given a _reward_ for both of those things, don't you?"

"One can hardly be faulted for wishing to take control of one's own life, can they?" Morrigan arched an eyebrow at him, and Alistair scowled in return. "'Tis little different from wishing to be acknowledged by one's own father, is it not?" She gave him such a shrewd look that it brought a flush to Alistair's cheeks and a deeper scowl. Bloody… so she _had_ been eavesdropping on his conversation with Yllia that night in Lothering!

Leliana was giving him a curious look now, and he clenched his jaw. He did _not_ want to get into a discussion regarding his parentage with either Morrigan or Leliana, and he _definitely_ did not want to do it in the main hall of Redcliffe Castle! Movement drew his attention away – thank Andraste – as Teagan moved across the room to join the three mages, taking up position next to Yllia. A couple of emphatic gestures later and a nod to Isolde, and both Irving and Wynne finally appeared to relent and step back.

Alistair caught Yllia's eye as she turned away from them and towards Jowan, and she offered him a tight smile of assurance, which he could only assume meant they were going to go ahead with the ritual as planned, but that the Circle mages were still none too happy about the situation. Then their eye contact broke and she was going over to Jowan, touching the other man's shoulder to get his attention and talking to him in quiet tones.

A moment later they were moving into position, with Jowan standing in front of Yllia and the mages that had accompanied the First Enchanter from the Circle forming a semi-circle around her. One of the mages passed Jowan a rather large glass vial, the blue liquid within shimmering, and Alistair had to fight to suppress a shudder as he recognized the lyrium. He remembered the stuff from his training days, and the recollection brought the memory of the taste to mind. He hadn't taken it nearly long enough to worry about addiction, thank the Maker, and wondered briefly if the metallic taste got any more tolerable over prolonged use. _Far more likely that they just ignore it, since they have to live off of the stuff_ , he thought wryly.

Having spent time training with templars and now with Yllia, Alistair had witnessed his share of spells. Most were the same – some chanting, some hand waving, often fire. But he'd never seen a spell that sent someone to the Fade, and he wasn't sure what to expect. He did know, as he stood there quietly, that his stomach was twisted in knots at the thought of Yllia having to face the demon that held Connor in its grasp _alone_. He'd as much as voiced his concern before they'd started this.

She'd calmly reminded him that this wouldn't be the first time she'd faced down a demon, and he'd been left with little to no argument. Arguing wouldn't have done any good, anyway. He was coming to know her little personal ticks, those bits of body language that preceded her decisions and betrayed her thoughts. She wasn't going to make any other mage go through this – if it was going to be done, _she_ would do it. She wasn't going to be talked out of it.

And with Connor's life at stake, he couldn't bring himself to try.

Jowan brought his hands up in front of him - and Alistair saw that almost everyone was watching for any trace of blood, including him – and began casting. His movements were shaky, a look of nervousness in his eyes…what was it that Yllia had said, that Jowan had never been especially talented in any of the Circle-approved schools of magic? Interesting that they were letting him cast this spell at all, then, although since he was the only one who knew it they didn't have much of a choice.

Jowan's hands suddenly flared with light, an unexpected burst that made Alistair draw back and bring his hand up to shield his eyes.

When he lowered his hand, he found Yllia collapsed on the floor, and the First Enchanter was kneeling beside her. After a moment, he motioned to one of the other mages to move her into a more comfortable position, and lifted his head to address the room. "She's entered the Fade," Irving said gravely.

Alistair's throat tightened as his eyes focused on the still-form of the diminutive elf, and a dark thought entered his mind. If anything happened to Yllia, it didn't matter what intentions Teagan or the templars had for the blood mage. He'd deal with him himself. "What do we do now?" he asked Irving, his words strained.

The elder mage fixed his eyes on Alistair, his expression grim. "The rest is up to her," he said. "All we can do now is wait."


	18. Lotus Denied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To a mage the Fade was more than a simple place to dream. It was a living, breathing entity, another realm tied so closely to the waking world that it could be reached simply by closing one's eyes... or casting a spell.

_Denerim_

The air was heavy in the city of Denerim, the usual bustle muted with solemnity. Unsurprising, really – the entire country was still reeling over the loss of its king and the heavy defeat at Ostagar. Not even the nobility could be turned to in this time of need; the Bannorn were divided, the combined loss of both King Cailan and Teyrn Cousland, as well as the rumored news of Arl Eamon’s illness, had struck a heavy blow.

And now this. A messenger had arrived just hours earlier, and Loghain could only read the contents of the message repeatedly, unable to do anything about what it held. Lothering had fallen. The darkspawn had spread north enough to affect that largest village north of the Wilds, and it was no more. Only a single templar, one Ser Byron, had escaped the horde to bring word to Denerim. The moment he’d read the report he’d dispatched half a dozen more scouts to ascertain exactly how much further north the horde had moved…and east as well. He wondered how many of them would return. He wondered how far they would get before having to turn back.

He did not permit himself to think about Gwaren.

Loghain heard the footsteps enter the room, and recognized the footfalls; he did not turn to face the newcomer.

“I bring word, sire,” Rendon Howe’s carefully calculated drawl came from behind. “There are demands from the Bannorn that you step down from the Regency. They are said to be gathering their forces, as are your allies. It appears it will be civil war after all, _despite_ the darkspawn. Pity.”

Loghain closed his eyes, keeping his back to Howe. So the Bannorn would fight him. Unsurprising given the tenacity of some of the banns. He went through them in his mind quickly – he knew he could count on the support of Amaranthine City through Howe, and Lothering would not be an issue now. Rainesfere would be against him for certain; Bann Teagan had made his displeasure with him more than known.  South Reach would likely oppose him as well. The rest…

“I also have an interesting report,” Howe continued. “There seem to be Grey Wardens who survived Ostagar. How, I don’t know, but they _will_ act against you.”

Loghain closed his eyes briefly, and then nodded to himself. Of course there were survivors. He knew none of those on the battlefield could have lived, but the two who had been sent to the Tower of Ishal – he’d seen the beacon lit, though late, and by that had told him they’d survived that long. There’d always been the possibility, which was why he’d ordered some of his men to remain in the south and seek news. Or heads, if the opportunity presented itself.

The thought that any of those traitors might have survived…he’d _never_ trusted the Grey Wardens. He’d told Maric, and later Cailan, time and time again. And he’d been proven right, hadn’t he, twenty years earlier when they’d conspired with the former First Enchanter to deliver Maric to Orlais! Yet Maric had waved off his concerns, and Cailan hadn’t heard them.

“I have arranged for a…ah… _solution_ ,” Howe continued, and for the first time Loghain turned to look at him, and slight frown upon his face. It would not be the first time Howe had taken care of outside matters while Loghain dealt with the twin juggernauts of Orlais and the darkspawn, but it _was_ the first time he’d done so without request. Without waiting for Loghain to respond, Howe turned slightly and gestured off to the side. “With your leave.”

With a jolt of shock that he kept carefully hidden, Loghain realized that he had failed to notice the second person in the room with them. Even now, as the elf came forward with silent steps, he realized he would not have registered his presence had Howe not specifically pointed him out.

The elf was short of stature in the manner that elves were, but Loghain knew that that meant little with the right training and proper skill. Beneath the light armor this elf wore he decided power and presence, a lithe strength that he had honed to perfection in order to obtain the light footfalls that made him near undetectable. That alone made him realize what he was facing before the elf even spoke.

“The Antivan Crows send their regards,” the elf said in an obvious accent.

Loghain took a deep breath, then seized his cup and brought it to his lips, taking a drink of the wine as he turned his back once more to them. “An assassin against Grey Wardens.” More amazing was that an assassin had even taken the _job_.

“We will need the very best,” Howe pointed out.

The elf chuckled. “And,” he pointed out with no little glee, “the most expensive.”

Loghain tensed and half-turned, but stopped himself before his thoughts could find voice. No need for the Crows to know how tight Ferelden’s coffers were at this moment. The contract was clearly already in place, and Loghain knew he didn’t have the resources at his disposal to deal with the Wardens himself. The time was growing ever closer when he was going to have to figure out how to deal with the lack of money the country had at its disposal… but not now. Not yet. He had traitors, civil war, and darkspawn to contend with first.

“Just get it done,” he said harshly, clenching his jaw and staring at the fire before him.

There was a hesitant pause from behind him, as if neither Howe nor the assassin were sure if there was more to be said, and then if they wanted to risk saying it. Evidently they decided against it, as a moment later he heard them both turn and leave the room.

Loghain stared at the fire a moment longer, and then closed his eyes. He _would_ find a way to save Ferelden and keep the country from failing into ruin, no matter what the cost. He would not let Maric’s legacy founder; not when its fate rested on his shoulders alone.

Ferelden was all that he had left.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Zevran silently followed Howe out of the office, resisting the urge to cast a backwards glance at the man sitting behind the desk. So that was Ferelden’s Hero, their great warrior. Loghain Mac Tir was certainly as impressive as the legends would have him, to be true. Zevran had wondered on occasion if, perhaps, the stories were not embellished. Though some of them certainly were – as he sincerely doubted Loghain had taken on an entire company of Orlesian chevaliers bare-handed in single combat – many of them were quite believable now that he had laid eyes on the man himself.

He had observed something else in the man, however, something that the tales never claimed. There was a heavy weariness in the man, a great weight resting upon his shoulders. He was trying to hide it, and was doing so rather successfully, but Zevran was far too adept at discerning these sort of things to be fooled.

It likewise was not difficult to theorize _what_ was causing the strain. Not two hours in Amaranthine once _The Siren’s Call_ had docked, and Zevran had already heard a variety of rumors regarding Ostagar, King Cailan, and Loghain. Some were in support of the teyrn, supposing that he had had no choice in the matter; others condemned him, declaring him a traitor seeking to seize the throne for himself. Either could have been possible – Zevran had seen many such grabs for power in his time as a Crow.

Though in Zevran’s opinion those who made such bids did not burden themselves with guilt over those they had to step on to achieve their successes. Politics had never been his strong suit – he knew little of Ferelden’s situation save for knowing that it had only been thirty years since the country had won its independence from Orlais.  But still, he was fairly certain that political overthrows resulted in those _pleased_ to be in the position they were in now.

Loghain Mac Tir had not looked pleased. He had looked, in fact, as if he had a monstrous headache.

He had followed Howe a good distance from the office; as they neared the main corridor of the Palace, he slowed his pace until he came to a stop. “So,” he said, “I will be off, _si?_ I trust you wish this to be dealt with as swiftly as possible.”

Howe took a couple more steps, then paused as he realized the assassin wasn’t still following him. He turned with a slightly irritated look on his face – did he, Zevran wondered, have any other looks? – but held back whatever comment was trying to manifest along with it. “Not _quite_ ,” he said, looking down his aquiline nose as the elf. “There is another task that I wish for you carry out as well – or rather, an extension of what we discussed in the hall.”

Zevran inclined his head slightly, giving Howe a curious look. “Oh? And what is this intriguing extension you wish of me?”

“I must stress the importance of this,” Howe said, beady eyes narrowing. “The Wardens must _not_ be permitted to reach Denerim alive. _Particularly_ the man.”

Particularly? Zevran raised a mental eyebrow. The initial request had spoken of the Grey Wardens as a whole entity, not singling out any one Warden in specific. Affecting a casual tone he said, “I was under the impression that there were _many_ men within the Grey Wardens.”

“There were, once,” Howe said curtly. “But their numbers have been drastically reduced as of late. Now there are merely two – one a wet-behind-the-ears warrior; the other an elvhen woman. Our information indicates that _she_ appears to be the leader.” The contempt and disgust he put into his words spoke volumes as evidence of a misogynistic personality. “Both of them are to be eliminated.

_A wet-behind-the-ears warrior who must be_ particularly _killed?_ Zevran mused. _It’s not his skills, then, that is worrisome but rather something about the man himself._ There had once been a time when he would have delighted in puzzling out such a mystery before ultimately carrying out his task, and he had to admit that he could feel a bit of the old flair spiking his curiosity. He shoved it aside. He was doing this for only one reason, and he would not allow himself to be sidetracked by idle fancy.

“I understand,” Zevran said smoothly. “Leave the details to me – I will see this task done for you. I will require only a map of the possible routes they might take northward. The rest I shall provide on my own.”

This seemed to please Howe, as the assassin had figured it would; no doubt he’d been concerned about how deep into his coffers he would have to dip to cover possible expenses. That was the problem with nobility, no matter what country they hailed from – they were more than happy to dictate the orders, but have it actually impede on _them_ in any fashion and they became more and more obstinate. _Patetico._ Even the Masters of the Crows reached their heights by dirtying their hands, and for all that they were more than willing to lie, cheat, and kill to get to their places, at least they did so themselves.

“Good,” Howe said with a nod, looking distinctly pleased. “Good. Go, then, and see to your task.” He turned on his heel then, an obvious dismissal as he began to head back down the hall, leaving Zevran standing where he was – no doubt expecting him to find his own way out of the Palace, as well as locating his quarry and any other resources that he would need to see this job to completion.

Zevran idly wondered how quick it would take to draw his dagger and sink it into the man’s back as he walked off – he moved with such a sense of self-importance that the elf sincerely doubted the man was even remotely concerned he could be the target of an assassination himself.

The thought came and went an eyeblink; the elf shrugged and turned to slip out of the Palace as unseen as he had arrived. He had his task and he would not stray from it – it was only a matter of time before a _ratón_ such as he found himself from the wrong end of a Crow contract.

It was _almost_ a shame that he would not be around to see it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The Fade.

For most, the Fade was simply a name given to the realm of dreams, that place where minds drifted during sleep. Everyone knew the term; few gave actual thought as to what it was or what it held. Most never wandered beyond their own dreaming enclave, nor did they have any real influence on what occurred. Not of their own free will, at least.

It was different for mages. To a mage the Fade was more than a simple place to dream. It was a living, breathing entity, another realm tied so closely to the waking world that it could be reached simply by closing one’s eyes…or casting a spell.

Yllia opened her eyes and found herself staring at the familiar –yet-odd landscape around her. The first time she’d entered the Fade it was struck her how _alien_ the strange place was. The tree-lined paths and odd expanses of floating land, the peculiarity of how one traveled from area to area, the muted colors of objects attempting to mimic life and falling just short – all of these together gave the Fade a surreal quality, a sense of not-quite-right. One of her instructors had explained that the Fade tried to mimic the memories of its dreamers, to build itself off of them, but that memory was such a fragile thing based largely on perception that the end result could become rather disjointed.

Disjointed.

Now _that_ was a rather accurate description for how she felt at the sight of dozens of spectral Connors running around, repeating a myriad of phrases so jumbled together that they became nonsensical. None of the images appeared to take notice of her, but all of them seemed to be looking for something. Or someone. Hadn’t Isolde said that Connor had turned to the demon because of what had happened to the Arl? If she stood there and listened, she could just make out the phrase ‘Father, where are you?’ repeated over and over again, each time with a different note of desperation.

_Mamae? Mamae, where are you?_

A shudder slid through Yllia, and she wrapped her arms tight around herself, shoving the brief tendril of memory back to where it firmly belonged – _away_ , out of her thoughts and where it could do no harm. This wasn’t her dream; it was Connor’s and to add to the complication it was also now the territory of a demon. The _demon_ was the reason everything was so jumbled and confused here, Yllia was certain. Its presence was throwing off the harmony of Connor’s mind, and as the lines between _it_ and Connor became blurred the chaotic senses were leaking into the Fade itself.

She didn’t know what would happen if the demon managed to gain full control and fortunately she had no intention of finding out.

The Connor-specters paid her no heed, running every which way along the dirt-and-rock paths that served for solid ground. At first it seemed as if they moved without pattern or purpose; then she realized that regardless of where they ran at first, each one always ended up darting off down a specific path. Towards the demon? Possibly, if it really was acting as the source for the chaos.

A quick check behind her to make sure that her staff had materialized with her, and she started along the path that each specter was taking.

The scenery remained unchanged; she wasn’t sure if it was just because everything looked so _alike_ , or if it really did happen to be repeating itself. Soon, though, she noticed a difference in the cacophony of children’s voices – another voice, deeper, a man’s voice calling out.

She rounded a corner and stopped. “Well,” she commented to no one, “if it wasn’t surreal before, it certainly is now.”

Before her, set in a small copse of near-dead trees, was a man standing in the middle of a re-imagined bedroom. He was older, with graying hair and a full beard, dressed in finery and looking rather panicked. Yllia had never seen him before, but going off of a certain family resemblance combined with the anxious sound of Connor’s name being called, it was easy enough to guess who she was seeing.

“Arl Eamon? How in the world did _you_ get here?”

She might as well have been talking to thin air for all the reaction the comment got from him. He looked at her as if she were transparent, his eyes focusing on a point behind her. “Connor?” he called, shifting his gaze a moment later to sweep the area. “Connor, where are you?” Never mind that there were a couple dozen Connor-specters running around – Eamon seemed as oblivious to those as he was to Yllia.

A product of the demon, perhaps, designed to cause more turmoil and strife within the boy’s mind? Possible. The demon _could_ be tormenting Connor with an image of his father being so close and yet unreachable, when all he wanted to do was save him. Dangling hope for too long without a chance of obtaining it, and even the strongest will could break.

But…no, that didn’t _feel_ right. Standing here before him, it didn’t feel as if she were talking to a demon-made apparition. Unlike the Connor-specters, Eamon varied what he said, not terribly, but enough to give her the sense that she was dealing more with a frantic father than a mental inconsistency. There had been several times when she’d walked the Fade in the past, during her dreams and her training, and on occasion had encountered the dreams of non-mages. In those moments she could do nothing to affect the dreamer – they simply went about their dream, taking no notice of her presence. After a few occasions of this she had taken note of a certain signature, a specific sense that told her whether the person before her was the true dreamer or a product of imagination thereof. Thinking it useful, she’d committed this signature to memory.

She felt it here, now, as clear as a bell. The man standing before her was the _real_ Arl Eamon.  Somehow, in the drugged stupor of the poison that was slowly draining away his life, the arl’s mind had become entangled with his son’s in the Fade. Was this one of the reasons that Connor was able to prevent the demon from fully taking control? Was his father’s presence here, however slim and minor it was, helping to keep the boy grounded? She’d never heard of anything like this happening before, but that didn’t mean it _couldn’t_. Though how Eamon’s mind had managed to do this in the first place was an equally confounding question.

_Maybe_ , a sudden thought flickered into her mind, _Isolde isn’t the only one with mage blood running through her veins_.

A blanket of cold washed over her, gooseflesh prickling on her arms and spreading along their lengths. Her blue eyes darkening, she turned away from Arl Eamon to look down the path ahead. The end of the path was difficult to discern, shrouded in hazy mist that was impossible to see beyond without walking through it. She knew what this was; she’d felt it before. The demon had sensed her presence within its territory, sensed her power, and was calling to her. She could feel the compulsion tugging at her mind, but her mental wards were strong. She _could_ resist and keep her own mind. She _would_.

Squaring her shoulders and resisting the urge to draw her staff – she really didn’t want to give the demon an excuse to attack on sight – Yllia turned her back to Arl Eamon and began down the grayed path towards the mist. The Connor-specters didn’t come near this part, she noticed. They skirted around it, avoiding it as if it didn’t even exist. Unsurprisingly, through the mist she found a portal of swirling black and purple energy, and the compulsion grew stronger still.

Yllia stopped before the portal and closed her eyes, taking several slow, deep breaths in an attempt to clear her mind. It was the first time she’d experienced such a strong pull. The Sloth demon in the Tower exerted his power through the dreams – it had been easy enough for her to separate what was dream and what was not. The Pride demon she’d encountered during her Harrowing had opted to work not on her mind directly, but to persuade her through far subtler means.

This demon did not attempt to trick her. It was blunt, direct, and obvious – it knew what she was, probably knew what she wanted, and it showed no hesitation in working its will on her. She would have admired such straightforwardness and dedication – if, of course, the one utilizing it hadn’t been a _demon_.

The tug grew stronger, and Yllia stepped through the portal.

The scenery shifted and warped around her, the paths behind her vanishing and the sounds of Connor’s cries and Eamon’s exclamations disappearing. The temperature dropped drastically – and then rose, becoming a warmth that wrapped around her like a blanket on a winter’s night. A heady feeling of comfort and tranquility grew within her, and the world righted itself once more.

She opened eyes she had not known she’d closed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She opened eyes she had not known she’d closed, and found herself staring into a pair of matching blue.

They belonged to an elf, a woman with long flaxen hair and tan skin bearing the dark vallaslin of the Dalish. She was kneeling beside Yllia, a warm smile on her face. “Oh, good,” she said, the Dalish accent rounding out her words and reminding the younger elf of warm butter. “I was wondering when you’d be waking, lethallan. You’ve slept well into the mid-day.”

For a moment Yllia couldn’t comprehend what was being said to her. She blinked and rubbed at her eyes, pushing herself into a sitting position. She’d been curled up on a blanket of furs, piled up in the back of the aravel. The moment she righted herself, though, her head cleared, and she was able to drag herself out of that realm between dream and reality.

“Lethallan, are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” The woman was looking at her in concern now, hand reaching out to rest on her arm.

Yllia looked at her, and smiled. “I’m fine, Mamae,” she assured her quickly. Why did her heart feel as if she hadn’t seen her mother in years? She’d been there only that morning, when they’d risen for their morning meal before her father had gone out with the hunters and her mother had gone to work with the Halla. “I think I might have had a bad dream, but I don’t even remember it.”

Her mother still looked uncertain, but she accepted her daughter’s words and nodded. “Very well,” she said. “It’s time for you to wash up and get ready, though. The Keeper will be gathering everyone for the ceremony – you don’t want to be late for your own day, do you?”

A spark of excitement ran through Yllia, and her eyes lit up. The ceremony. The day that the light blue tattoos on her face that had been there since childhood would be darkened with her own blood, and she would be marked an adult in the face of her clan. And then… even better… the Keeper would officially proclaim her to be his First. Everyone knew that it would happen; Yllia was the only mage-child born to her clan since the Keeper’s generation. The announcement was formality only, but it would be official. Her heart quickened in anticipation at the mere thought of it.

Her mother saw the look on her face and laughed, rising to her feet. “Do what you need to do, then, and I’ll wait for you outside,” she said. “Try not to take too long.” It was a teasing jibe – she was meticulous when it came to her appearance, particularly her hair, and her parents knew it well. But then she’d inherited the trait from her mother, hadn’t she?

But today her excitement overrode all other feelings and she gave her hair only a cursory tidying up before dressing in the traditional armor of her people’s mages. She’d heard that the human mages were forced to wear long robes that trailed to their ankles and had high collars, and she couldn’t imagine anything more constrictive. The more flesh was covered the more apart from the natural world you were, and it was from nature that magic gained its strength. Humans might think short sleeves, bared midriffs, and low necklines indecent on their women, but for the Dalish it was commonplace. 

She emerged from the aravel into the shade and sunlight of the forest and gave a long stretch to work out the kinks in her muscles from her nap. The sunlight twinkled through the forest canopy, the trees allowing large patches of it to dot the encampment while others remained in complete shade. Normally if she looked around she could find the members of her clan dispersed intermittently around the camp, some of them tending to their duties, others relaxing or lounging in well-deserved breaks. Today, though, they were instead all gathered around the storyteller’s circle, and she knew that they were waiting for her.

The Keeper stood in the center of the circle, and she smiled when she saw Yllia. She was many years older, her ravens-wing hair liberally streaked with silver that betrayed her age, her own vallaslin faded with age. She was choosing a First at an age older than most Keepers, but then Yllia would be her second, the first having died due to illness before Yllia had been born. Her clan knew very well that not even their Keepers were exempt from the perils of injury and illness.

The crowd parted when Yllia approached to allow her into the circle; she saw her parents standing on the edge. She’d never seen a prouder look on her father’s face – the sheer pleasure in his expression and her mother’s brought a shy blush to her cheeks. When she’d first shown her magic and the Keeper had announced her intent to make her First, she’d never seen them smile so much. And now here she was, about to take her vallaslin and accept her new position within the clan.

The Keeper placed her hand on Yllia’s back when she was close enough and turned to address the clan. “We have gathered here this day to see our child take her first step into womanhood, and to claim her birthright as a member of this clan,” she announced, her voice carrying to all ears despite being only slightly louder than her normal volume. “Child no more, she will claim her place as First, and when I have returned to the earth she will claim her place as Keeper, leading on in my stead. Be there anyone who objects to this declaration?”

No one spoke; even if anyone did object, no one would go against the Keeper’s wishes. Their Keeper was much beloved. If she wanted Yllia for her First, then she would have Yllia. When only silence met the Keeper’s words, the elder woman turned to face Yllia. “And are you ready to accept your responsibilities to the People, young Yllia?”

Yllia nodded, her heart quickening in anticipation. “I am,” she said. “I’m ready, Keeper.”

The Keeper smiled and nodded, and then motioned one of the men over. He held in his hands the special tools for creating the vallaslin, and Yllia tried not to look nervous as she looked at the sharpened instruments. She could do this. She would do this. She had waited far, far too long for this moment.

She turned to face the tattooist and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steel herself for the first cut into her skin. Taking the vallaslin was no small feat – it was a test of strength and fortitude. No Dalish who did not undergo the rite would ever be accepted as an adult within the clan. She braced herself, waiting for the touch of the blade.

It didn’t come. A shout went up from the edge of the camp without warning, the scouts giving the signal of outsiders approaching. Yllia’s eyes snapped open, her alarmed gaze following everyone else’s over towards the entrance to the camp.

Three scouts appeared moments later, leading a caravan of armor-clad humans into the camp. No – not only humans, Yllia realized with a start. Of the dozen or so men who approached, at least a third of them were a mix of elves and dwarves. They appeared to be a motley crew, their armor dinged and damaged from battle, some of them sporting recent-looking injuries that had been tended to in haste. It wasn’t the first time their clan had come across a group of mercenaries or patrolling soldiers, but there was something…different about these.  

A hand touched her arm, and she turned her head to see the Keeper standing beside her. “Come with me,” the Keeper murmured, starting towards the men. Yllia quickly followed – it was usually up to the Keeper to handle such intrusions, and as her soon-to-be First it would one day be Yllia’s task. No time to learn like the present, she supposed.

The Keeper walked up to the man who appeared at the head of the group, a swarthy man with dark hair and a full beard. “I am the Keeper of this clan,” she said, shifting effortlessly into the tongue of man, for languages were just one of many avenues of knowledge a Keeper pursued. “Please allow me to welcome you to our camp.”

Yllia looked at the Keeper, startled. Welcome? She couldn’t remember the last time humans had been welcome among their people. Theirs was a clan that did not have a good history with humans, and so did their ready best to avoid confrontation and conflict with them. To hear the Keeper welcome these men… who were they?

“We are grateful for your hospitality,” the man said gravely. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Duncan, Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens. My men and I are passing through on our way to the Korcari Wilds.”  

As the Keeper ran a critical eye over Duncan’s men, Yllia’s eyes widened. Grey Wardens? These men…this motley crew of humans, elves, and dwarves…they were Grey Wardens? Regardless of where they lived, there wasn’t a single Dalish who didn’t know of the Order of the Grey. The Keeper had told her on occasion of how the Dalish and the Wardens had long held a treaty between them, one that stated that should the Wardens request it, a Dalish clan was required to allow them to choose new Wardens from among their ranks.

She’d always imagined the Grey Wardens to be like something out of legends, six feet tall and all muscle and stretch, wielding greatswords and great axes with their enhanced strength, able to spy darkspawn from miles away, powerful enough to fell an archdemon with a single blow. Perhaps even breathing some fire every now and then. And of course the griffins – she loved the tales of the griffins, though she knew the animals had long been extinct.

These men were nothing like what her imagination had come up with. Most of them were of average height for their respective races. Then men had a very Ferelden appearance to them, the elves looked like a mix of Dalish and city elves, and the dwarves…all right, it was her first time ever seeing a dwarf, and she had to admit that she was a little fascinated by the sheer length and bulk that was their beards. Elves didn’t grow facial hair; the beards were impressive.

As her eyes moved over the Wardens, they suddenly connected with a pair of amused hazel that were looking right at her. The sudden realization that she’d been caught red-handed in her scrutinizing brought a rare blush to her cheeks, and she immediately averted her gaze.

“Yllia!” The sharp rapport of the Keeper’s voice snapped her out of her distraction, eyes widening as she realized the Keeper must have been trying to get her attention more than a couple of times. Her cheeks flushed against for an entirely different reason, and she sought to look contrite.

“Yes, Keeper?” she asked, clasping her hands together in front of her and trying to look as if she knew exactly what was going on despite her obvious distraction.

“The Wardens are seeking replenishment in their supplies before they continue southward,” the Keeper said. “See to it that they get everything they need.”

Yllia nodded obediently. “Yes, Keeper,” she repeated, then looked at Duncan. She faltered slightly. Was she supposed to take all of them to the supply aravel?

“Alistair,” Duncan said, turning his head slightly, “you’re in charge of making sure we get what we need.”

It was the hazel-eyed man who Yllia had locked gazes with for a moment who stepped forward at Duncan’s words, and he flashed Yllia a boyish grin that grew a tentative return smile from her. She gave a slight nod and motioned for him to follow her. “This way.”

The man followed her without hesitation, walking alongside her with what was – to her – startling ease given the amount of armor that he was currently wearing on his broad-shouldered frame. Elves, by nature of their size and stature, could generally only handle the lightest of armors. There had been a few who with the strength and balance to handle the heavier work, but those who did were rarely permitted to use it outside of specialized combat. Heavy armor, even medium, was not exactly beneficial to moving through trees silent and unseen.

When they reached the supply aravel, Yllia began to pull out portions of each type of item needed, passing them to Alistair so that he could slip them into the packs he’d brought. “Thanks for this,” he said. “We’ve still got a bit of a trek south towards Ostagar, and we lost half our supplies in a skirmish a few days back. We’re lucky to have come across your clan, and that you’re willing to help us.”

“The Dalish have always had a pact of cooperation with the Grey Wardens,” Yllia said softly. “It wouldn’t be honorable to break it.”

“Duncan said the Dalish take their honor seriously,” Alistair commented, scowling at his pack as he shifted items around within it to try and make more room. “That’s why he wanted to come here instead of trying to make for the next village. Some of the others wanted to press on, but we were all more than a little cranky at that point, so Duncan ignored them and just changed our course. Don’t know how he knew your clan was here, but he led us straight to you without hesitation.”

“I suspect that this isn’t the first time he’s dealt with the Dalish,” Yllia murmured, stealing a glance in the direction of where Duncan and the Keeper were talking quietly between the two of them. The rest of the clan had dispersed, some of them lingering near out of suspicion or curiosity, others returning to their duties. The ceremony was halted for now – it would pick up again after the Wardens left.

She passed Alistair the last of the supplies and let the leather covering fall back over the aravel entrance. Then she turned to look at him – just in time for him to lose his grip on the pack and have it tumble to the side, half the carefully-packed supplies falling out of their place. He bit back a groan. “None of that got ruined, did it?

She knelt down to help him gather it back up. “No – see? We wrap the food in these leaves both to protect it and to preserve its taste. And the seals on the sacks did not break, so the rest of the supplies are fine as well.” He looked relieved, smiling as he accepted her help.

Once the pack was re-organized and actually closed this time, Alistair commenting that she had a much better handle on the task than he did, the two of them rose to their feet. Alistair automatically reached out to help her, placing his hand on her arm, a gesture with brought a light blush to her cheeks once more. Most Dalish would have scorned such a touch from a shemlen, but there was just something so inherently sweet about Alistair that Yllia couldn’t be offended.

“You say you’re going south, then?” Yllia asked curiously.”To the Wilds?”

Alistair shouldered the pack and nodded. “Ostagar, to be exact,” he said, naming the ancient ruins that were said to date back to the days when Ferelden was controlled by the Tevinter Imperium. Yllia had always secretly hoped that one day her clan would pass through and she could see them, but the Wilds belonged to the Chasind, and as a rule the Dalish tried to keep out of their territory.

“That’s quite a ways south,” she commented. “Why are you going there?”

Alistair cast a brief glance in Duncan’s direction, hesitating as if unsure whether or not he ought to answer her question. Just as Yllia was about to retract the question and spare him the discomfort he seemed to make up his mind and turned back to her.

“We’re to meet up with King Cailan’s army there,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There’ve been reports of a multitude of darkspawn in the area. That’s another reason why Duncan wanted to intercept your clan before we went further south. He’s probably warning your Keeper now and advising her to turn your clan north.”

North was where they were headed anyway, but the implication of Alistair’s words formed an uneasy weight within her. “Darkspawn?” she repeated. She’d never seen one. She never wanted to. The darkspawn were creatures of corruption, a single nightmare shared by all the races of Thedas. Man, elf, dwarf, even the kossith of the Qunari – all were tied to the darkspawn, and all held a fear in their hearts for them.

Alistair nodded. “We…don’t know how many. That’s one of the things we’re going to check out.”

He was lying. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his hesitation. He might not know the exact number, but he knew enough to know that this was no mere uprising of darkspawn from the Deep Roads. And Yllia was no fool, nor a slacker in her history. The Grey Wardens dealt with the darkspawn exclusively – save for four deadly exceptions.

Was there now to be a Fifth?

A chill ran through her, coupling with her uneasiness to leave her with an ominous feeling. Gooseflesh pricked her arms; she rubbed at them absently. “I should be there,” she whispered.

Alistair gave her an odd look. “Uh…sorry? Didn’t quite catch that.”

She swallowed; her throat was dry and her mouth tasted like sand. “I should be there,” she repeated, louder this time. “I shouldn’t… be here.”

She didn’t hear what he said in response as she turned away from him, her eyes sweeping around the camp. Wrong. All wrong. She didn’t know how she hadn’t seen it before. The colors were muted, not nearly as vibrant as they ought to be. There was a distortion to voices, mouths moving slightly out of sync of what was being said – and she realized that unless she was focusing directly on a person, no sound actually came from them despite the mimicry of conversation.

“This is all wrong,” she whispered, choking on the words. “All wrong.” Her eyes went to the group of Wardens surrounding the Keeper, and her heart thudded heavily in her chest. Duncan looked normal, as normal as he had the last time she’d seen him – _whenhadsheseenhim?!_ – but the Wardens around him…

For the first time she realized that their faces were…blank. Expressions lax, eyes dim, just standing there as if they were mere props on an Orlesian stage. Their features appeared blurred and indistinct, as though they were waiting for an artist to finish filling in the canvas.

The Keeper held more detail, but even then there were things that were _off_ about her. The color of her hair kept abruptly shifting, as if it couldn’t decide what shade it was supposed to be. The vallaslin on her face would be different each time she turned her head. Small, tiny things, things that could have been overlooked if not for the overwhelming _wrongness_ that had suddenly washed over her. She heard Alistair’s voice again, but it was distant this time. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him reaching for him, but she jerked away and spun around, a desperate look on her face as she searched the crowd of Dalish for the one person who could make it all _better_. Her mother.

Not her mother.

Even before her eyes came to land on the face of the woman who just moments ago had been smiling and joking with her, before she saw the emptiness in that face that was mirrored in all the others, that not-quite-rightness, Yllia knew the truth.

She couldn’t be with her clan, preparing for her vallaslin, because her clan no longer existed. She couldn’t be in this forest, because she’d spent her entire life in the tower of Kinloch Hold. Her life among the Dalish had been cut short at the age of four. And her mother couldn’t possibly be standing before her, because her mother was dead.

“Damn. And I was _so_ certain I’d picked the perfect temptation.”

It was Alistair’s voice and it was not Alistair’s voice, the gentle baritone taking on a purring quality that, if spoken by the real Alistair, would have had Morrigan in an uproar. The landscape around her shifted, the bright greens and deep browns of the forest fading, and Yllia found herself turning all on her own to come face to face with ‘Alistair’.

 ‘He’ stood there, arms crossed over ‘his’ chest, looking amused and bored all at once. “Really, you _could_ have proven to be more of an entertainment,” ‘he’ said. “It’s _your_ fault, after all, that I haven’t been able to enjoy myself these last few nights. Do you have any idea how _droll_ it is, possessing a body and being unable to do anything with it?”

Yllia narrowed her eyes. “Not really, no, and I don’t have any intention of finding out,” she said icily. “Mind doing me a favor and losing that form? It doesn’t suit you at _all_.”

“Possessive, aren’t we?” The demon ran ‘his’ hand down the front of ‘his’ body in a decidedly feminine manner, which would have been humorous if the situation weren’t what it was. As the hand moved the body shifted and changed, skin darkening to a deep purple, broad shoulders growing more delicate, breasts forming above a slimming waist and hips that suddenly flared. Twin horns grew from the now waist-length mass of black-violet hair, and the Desire demon curled her lips into a slow, seductive smile.

“Still,” she purred, no trace of Alistair’s voice remaining, “I have to admit to some surprise. I return to you your clan and family, and yet you still persist in choosing the Wardens and the human. What hidden desires you have, mageling.”

“I don’t have any interest in analyzing my wants and dreams with you, demon,” Yllia said, applauding herself mentally for keeping her voice calm. “They belong to me and me alone.”

“Ah, but so long as you’re in _my_ place, mageling, your wishes are an open book that I may peruse at my leisure.” The demon moved around Yllia in a slow circle, the wisp of smoke that her legs tapered into writhing along the ground. Yllia stood her ground, keeping her gaze straight ahead and not allowing herself to fall into the trap of being mesmerized by the Desire demon’s movements. That had been her initial mistake; she hadn’t been prepared when she’d passed through the portal, and the demon had already been lying in wait for her, snaring her in fantasy the moment she’d stepped through. She would _not_ make the same mistake again. She’d faced a Pride demon for her Harrowing; damn if she was going to fall to one of Desire.

“Yes… right out there in the open for me to see,” the demon continued with a silky laugh. “You _want_ him, don’t you, little mageling? How very quaint – the mage and the templar, brought together by a chance quirk in fate.

“Do you think _he’ll_ ever want you in the same way?” The voice was right next to Yllia’s ear now, causing her to tense and hold her breath. “It won’t work, you know. To him you’re nothing more than a knife-eared wench, good for one thing and one thing only. And _tainted_ by magic, so not even good for that. He’ll never accept you as you are. You’ll never be more than a dalliance to him.”

Yllia clenched her jaw, gritting her teeth together in annoyance. She moved her fingers, sparks of electricity snapping around their tips. “Keep talking, demon,” she growled. “The more you do, the angrier I’m going to get. If you have such _insight_ into my mind, you _know_ why I’m here.”

The demon sighed, and moved to hover in front of her again. “Yes, yes,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “The boy. You wish to free him from my dark, unholy control, to release him from the chains of possession that I have sundered him with.” She chuckled. “You will find it futile. The boy _asked_ for my aid, he _begged_ me for it. He doesn’t _wish_ to be free of me.”

“Somehow I don’t think imprisoning his father in his own mind was quite the rescue that Connor intended for Arl Eamon,” Yllia said icily, and the demon’s eyes narrowed. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice what you did.  In exchange for power you promised Connor that his father would live – and true enough he does, but he lives half an existence. Do you _really_ think Connor considers the bargain well met?”

“The boy is _mine_ ,” the demon hissed, drawing herself up to full height. She dropped the seductive posture, the teasing lilt, and bared her fangs. “Leave us be, _mage_. I will not be denied!”

Yllia gave the demon her sweetest smile, and her staff appeared in her hand with a single thought. “Too bad,” she said. “ _I’m_ denying you.”

With a shriek of anger the demon lashed out, thrusting out her hands and sending streams of lightning arcing out towards Yllia. It was exactly what she’d been waiting for – that moment when the demon lost all pretense of civility and reduced itself to its base nature as a creature of chaos and destruction.

With practiced skill she brought her staff up to block, a pulse of purple and white light exploding front the tip of it as she returned fire. The arcane bolt did little to thwart the demon, but it serves its dual purpose of startling her, allowing Yllia to close the distance between them and unleash a close-range burst of fire. The demon threw up her arms, cursing and swearing even as energy curled around her fingers.

Before the next attack could go off, Yllia dropped to her knees and spun her staff, driving the weapon’s pointed tip deep into the demon’s abdomen. The growing energy stuttered, then petered out with little fanfare as the demon’s hand came down to grasp at the object protruding from her body.

She drew back her lips, reveling sharp, pointed fangs. “You think this will be enough to do me in?” she hissed. “You underestimate me, mageling!”

“Actually,” Yllia said, “I was expecting you to put up a better fight.” She threw her weight against the staff, the opposite end of it protruding out of the demon’s back. The demon arched her back and screamed, the Fade reverberating with her death throes.

Almost too late Yllia sensed the magic growing around them, and her eyes widened as she realized the demon had cast one last spell at the moment of her death. Yllia released her grip on the staff, but there was no time to move back – without warning the corpse and her staff both erupted into flames, exploding with force and sending her slamming into the ground, her head striking a rock as fire rained down around her.

As her vision went black she dimly thought, _Well, at least I killed the demon._


	19. Conscription

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The angel shall spread his wings, and all shall fall before his might. And so shall his resting place be ever more a silent plain."

She knew, this time, that she was in the midst of a dream. A true dream, not one created by the whims of a demon determined to twist her mind into submission. There was an element of blurriness to outlines, a certain echoing quality to voices and sounds that betrayed the not-quite-real qualities.

She stood in a dark, circular room lit only by torches set into wall sconces, the primary furnishing a large round table. Tapestries hung from the wall, massive griffons detailed in the center of what must have been an expanse of blue, but the muted tone of the dream washed all color to shades of grey.

Two men stood at this table, a massive map stretched out across it. Thedas, she realized, but more than half of the continent was blacked out, massive charcoal scrawls covering the parchment. One of the men was big and burly, with long flaxen hair tied back with a strip of leather, a full beard adorning his jaw. The other was a redhead, his skin just as fair as his companions, his own hair done in two thin braids that tied behind his head with only light stubble on his cheeks. Both wore cloaks of fur lining and heavy armor.

“The time has come,” the blonde man said abruptly, his eyes remaining on the map before him. “If we fail at this, then all of Thedas will be doomed. We are throwing everything that we have into this battle now.”

“This is madness,” the redhead said, shaking his head. “Allow us to perform the ritual _now_ – take us into battle with you! The greater your numbers…”

“The greater our casualties,” the blonde said quietly. “No. You and the others must remain untainted. We do not yet know what will happen when he falls. _Someone_ must remain alive to carry on our name and Order.”

“You speak of death as if it were certainty.”

The blonde pressed his lips together, his expression grave as he regarded his companion. “We are facing a god of corruption, Svein. To speak of death in any other way would be foolish and guarantee our failure.” He shook his head. “This was not a decision any of us came to lightly, but it is inevitable. We can _feel_ the taint and corruption moving through our own bodies; the oldest of us have but months left on our lives. And we all agree we’d rather die on the battlefield than as invalids in a bed.”

Svein looked down at the map, reaching out to trace the edge of one of the remaining clear areas. “If it dies here…this land will never recover.”

“No,” the other man confirmed. “The taint and corruption will soak deep into the ground, killing all vegetation, and it is like as not that nothing will grow there for decades to come. But it is our last chance. If we do not succeed, Thedas will not last the year.”

“’And the angel shall spread his wings,’” Svein said softly, “’and all shall fall silent before his might.’”

“’And so shall his resting place be evermore a silent plain,’” the blonde intoned. 

Yllia wrapped her arms around herself as she felt cold. Those words _meant_ something – she just didn’t have a clue _what_. Who were these men? The griffon on the tapestries, their talk of taint and corruption – were they Grey Wardens? But they spoke of the Blight as if it had been ongoing for many years. She knew from her studies that previous Blights had often lasted impossible lengths of time, over two hundred years for the First, but the Fifth had only just begun.

The two men rose from the table then and headed for the door, and the scenery around Yllia shifted. The war room warped and twisted, and suddenly she found herself in a cavern, standing before a massive steel door. _Dwarven steel_ , the thought whispered through her mind, but she knew not where the words came from. She only knew that they were true.

The redhead stood before the doors, and to his left was not the blonde this time, but an elf clad in silver armor with a sword on his back. The elf had his hand extended, palm up, and an orb of light floating just above his palm to illuminate the vault door before them.

The door was like nothing Yllia had ever seen before – two massive hulks of steel set in a stone wall, the ends seamlessly sealed together by a circular metal plate that sported six round indentations around the circumference.

“Just standing before this gives me the chills,” the elf whispered in a clear Dalish accent.

“Me as well, my friend,” Svein replied. “Remember what we spoke about. _No_ one is to know of this outside of our circle.”

“Of course. Even if I were to break the vow, I doubt anyone would believe me.”

Svein  smiled humorlessly, then reached into his cloak to withdraw a carefully wrapped sphere. Deftly he released the ties holding the wrapping closed, letting the fabric fall away.

In his hand lay a brilliant white orb of shifting, effervescent light.

“By the Creators,” the elf whispered, his eyes growing wide as he stared at the orb. “I can feel its power…how can something so _pure_ come from one so _corrupted?_ ”

Svein held the orb between his hands, looking down at it. “Many men gave their lives for this to be born,” he said quietly. “It falls on us, now, to ensure their sacrifices were not in vain.”

“We will likely be dead before Zazikel rises,” the elf murmured. “How can we be certain our brethren will see this through to the end?”

“We cannot,” Svein said simply. “We can only set the wheel in motion, and pray that they shall follow in our tracks.” He stepped towards the door and reached up, placing the glowing orb against one of the indents. It slipped in easily, held firmly in place. The orb pulsed once, then dimmed until the light flared only in the very center.

It looked like the eye of a dragon.

Svein stepped back to stand alongside the elf, the two of them looking at the door for a moment. “Come,” Svein finally said after a long period of silence. “There is much still left to do…and I would rather put this place behind me.”

The two left, and Yllia prepared for the dream (vision? memory? hallucination?) to change. It did not; it remained as it was, the dragon’s eye staring unseeingly into the cavern, the empty spaces for five more around it lending to the already ominous atmosphere.

And then the orb moved. The ‘pupil’ of the eye focused fully on Yllia, the white light within shining just a touch more brightly than before. In an instant she could feel herself drawn to it, moving closer to the door, her eyes focused on the orb and the orb alone. It pulsed as she drew near, and in the back of her mind she thought she could hear the soft hum of a low, single note endlessly drawn out.

She reached up her hand towards the orb.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

“It’s been over an hour.”

The flat tone of the templar echoed in the otherwise silent room. The words had a ripple effect through the room, ranging from minor worry from those who didn’t understand the purpose of the declaration to alarm and almost-panic from those who _did_ and actually cared about the outcome. The templar had his hand resting lightly on the end of his sword, his fingers drumming absently against the hilt as he looked around the room with – Alistair was _sure_ of it – a bit of glee at the distress apparent on some of their faces.

“This is not a Harrowing, Ser Cormac,” Irving spoke up, looking at the templar sternly. “Nor is Yllia under the jurisdiction of the Circle any longer. I believe Knight-Commander Greagoir was very clear that any decisions were to be left up to Grey Wardens.” Irving nodded in Alistair’s direction; Cormac scowled deeply and glowered.

“What are they going on about now?” Morrigan muttered under her breath, and Alistair took no pride in understanding a conversation that Morrigan did not. _He_ knew what they were referring to, and he gave Cormac a fierce look of warning. If the templar so much as took a step towards Yllia he was going to have to answer to Alsitair.

“Give her time,” Jowan said, speaking up for the first time since he’d performed the ritual. He glanced up, just barely tilting his head, peeking at them all through his shaggy, unkempt bangs. “Just…give her time, please. She can do this, I know she can.” Then he quickly dropped his gaze back down to Yllia’s prone form, wringing his hands together in front of him. Alistair could read the tension in the other mage’s shoulders, and clenched his jaw tightly.

 _I shouldn’t have let her do this,_ he thought anxiously. _I should have insisted one of the other mages do it – this sounds far more like it’d be up_ Morrigan’s _alley. Why hasn’t she woken up yet? She should be…_

The fingers of Yllia’s right hand twitched, curling and uncurling in a slow, deliberate movement. Alistair held his breath, then let it out in a rush when _finally_ her eyes fluttered open, staring incomprehensively up at the ceiling. Ser Cormac’s hand moved towards his sword again – and stopped when he felt the weight of Sten’s severe gaze. Alistair might not completely trust the Qunari warrior, but at least there was comfort in knowing that he took his declarations of loyalty seriously. Cormac remained where he was.

Yllia closed her eyes briefly, and when they reopened there was far more alertness and clarity in them. “Ow,” she said plainly. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a health potion right around now.”

Alistair hurried forward at the same time Jowan knelt beside her, and together the two of them helped her to sit up. She held onto them for a moment as she took a steadying breath and staved off vertigo, then looked around the room slowly until her eyes came to rest on Isolde and Teagan.

“The demon is dead,” she said. “Find Connor and check on him.”

Isolde needed no prompting. Without so much as a thank you – which Yllia hadn’t been expecting anyway – the arlessa turned on her heel, her skirt spinning around her legs, and ran from the room. Teagan lingered, equal parts astonishment and relief visible in his eyes. “It’s dead, truly?” he asked. “It won’t come back?”

Yllia shook her head wearily. “No – it’s gone for good,” she said. “We can talk about it later – right now your nephew probably needs you, Bann Teagan.” And she wanted a nap. A nice, long nap…maybe for a week. Or more. More would be nice.

Teagan nodded, looking as if years of weight had just been lifted off of his shoulders. “Thank you, Warden,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

“Are you all right?” Alistair asked softly, looking at Yllia in concern. He had one hand on her back and the other on her arm, and on the other side of her Jowan mimicked the position.

Yllia managed a light smile. “I’ve been worse,” she quipped. Seeing the worry in the eyes of both men she hastily added, “I’ll be fine once I get a meal and some rest. I want to make sure Connor is okay.”

“You can do that _after_ your meal and rest,” Wynne said firmly as she joined them. “I’m sure the Bann won’t object to your taking a room for a bit?” She gave Teagan a look so stern and matronly that he immediately nodded in the affirmative, sending one of the few remaining maids to the kitchen to see what remained of the food stock.

“Alistair, go ahead and take her to the guest quarters on the second floor – do you know which one I mean?” Teagan asked.

Alistair nodded, and before Yllia could voice a protest, he leaned down and caught her under the knees, sweeping her up into his arms. She let out a soft squeak of surprise, one hand gripping the front of his armor as she suddenly found herself off the ground. “Warn me before you do that!” she hissed at him, blushing profusely.

“But it’s more fun when I don’t,” Alistair said with a grin, which just made her blush deepen.

A sudden gasp of pain to their right wiped the blush clean away, and Yllia snapped her head over to see that Cormac had walked up and seized one of Jowan’s arms, rough enough to make the weakened mage wince. Jowan looked at Yllia, the fear and panic in his eyes clear. Cormac had a reputation among the Circle mages – and it wasn’t a pleasant one.

“What are you doing?” Yllia demanded, her own eyes widening. “Leave him alone!”

Cormac gave a derisive snort and looked with her scornfully. “You might be a Grey Warden, mage, but this one is a maleficar wanted by the Chantry. Now that this sodding ritual is done, we’ll be taking him back to the Tower.”

Yllia opened her mouth to protest, but a new voice cut in, this one laced with irritation. “In case you’ve forgotten, Ser, the mage Jowan is currently under the jurisdiction of Redcliffe,” Teagan said, glaring at the bulkier templar with a determined set of his jaw. “His crimes against my brother the Arl take precedent over his return to the Tower, and I’ll not be relinquishing him into your custody until a proper punishment has been determined for him by Redcliffe.”

Cormac stared at Teagan incredulously. “Are you _daft?_ ” he asked. “He’s a mage and a maleficar, and he’s the property of the Chantry!” Morrigan muttered something under her breath behind Alistair and Yllia; Leliana quickly shushed her. “ _We_ have first claim on him, not Redcliffe! And what does it matter? Surely  the punishment we deliver will be more than fitting for the crimes he committed _here_.”

Alistair felt Yllia tense further in his arms when Teagan didn’t immediately offer a counterargument. Jowan was growing paler by the moment – an impressive feat considering how pale the man already _was_ – and he looked as if he were just minutes away from collapsing where he stood. His expression almost made Alistair feel sorry for the mage. Almost. The man was, after all, responsible for Arl Eamon’s comatose state and at least partially responsible for Connor’s possession.

Teagan started to speak, but whatever decision he was about to make was lost in the words of another voice that spoke over his, one full of determination and challenge.  

“The Grey Wardens claim the mage for their own.”

All eyes swiftly focused on the elvhen woman in Alstair’s arms. Alistair himself stood still, eyes wide with shock and lips slightly parted as he tried to process what Yllia had just announced. No one was more shocked and surprised, however, than the templar and mage who stood in front of them.

“What?” Cormac asked, giving Yllia an incredulous look. “You must be…you can’t _do_ that!”

Yllia shifted in Alistair’s arms, the sudden adjustment of weight forcing him to set her on her feet to avoid dropping her on her rear. The diminutive elf drew herself up to her full height and put her hands on her hips. “Actually,” she said, “I can. I’m a Grey Warden, and the Wardens have the right to conscript _whoever_ they wish.” She gave Cormac a rather smug look. “Not even the templars can deny them.”

Cormac’s eyes flashed with anger, his expression growing dangerous as he took a step forward. “Why you impertinent little…” He stopped short when Rhys muscled his way in front of Yllia with a menacing growl and Alistair moved in closer behind her. Cormac’s upper lip curled in his disgust, but he remained where he was. “We’ll just see what the Knight-Commander has to say about this!”

“I believe the Knight-Commander will say nothing about it,” Irving said mildly. “The laws regarding conscription are quite clear. If the Grey Wardens claim Jowan, then Jowan they get.”

Ser Cormac clenched his jaw, and then turned to the one person he thought might prove to be an ally. “Bann Teagan,” he said, “surely _you_ cannot support this – as you said, this blood mage has committed crimes against your own family.”

Teagan met Cormac’s gaze steadily, and then met the challenging look in Yllia’s eyes.

The Bann held up his hands and shook his head. “I will not interfere with the Grey Wardens,” he said. “In particular the Warden responsible for saving my nephew’s life. If the Grey Wardens are taking the blood mage, then Redcliffe has no choice but to drop its claim on him.”

Cormac’s mouth opened and closed, reminding Alistair of a gasping fish that he’d once caught in a river. His cheeks flushed with angry color; he snapped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw with the full force of a glare at Yllia. Then he released Jowan roughly, sending the mage staggering to maintain his balance, turned on his heel and began to bark orders to the other templars to prepare for immediate departure as he strode from the room.

Yllia reached out and caught Jowan by the arm, letting him lean against her. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

Jowan took a deep breath, then gave a shaky nod. Yllia squeeze his arm lightly, then raised her head to look at both Irving and Teagan. To Alistair she spared no glance. “This man is no longer a prisoner, but a Warden recruit,” she said daringly. There was a ghost of a smile on Irving’s face and a slight nod – there was clearly no sign of opposition from the First Enchanter in regards to this new development.

Teagan looked rather more guarded on the matter. “Warden,” he ventured, “as grateful as I am to your assistance with Connor, this man _is_ still responsible for my brother’s current condition…”

Jowan flinched; Yllia nodded. “I’m aware of that, Bann Teagan,” she said, “and I’ll take full responsibility from Jowan while we’re here. I hope your offer of hospitality won’t be rescinded…?”

Teagan gave her an admonishing look. “I’m a man of my word, Warden Yllia,” he said. “Redcliffe will see you resupplied and refreshed. My only stipulation is that the mage not be left unattended while he is within the limits of this castle and the village, and that two of our guards continue to be posted outside of his door during your time here.” He pressed his lips together. “And…if possible, he should be kept away from Isolde.”

Jowan shrank back slightly at the mention of the arlessa’s name, and Yllia gave his arm another squeeze. “I understand,” she said to Teagan with a nod. “He’ll be with one of us at all times, I promise.”

Teagan could do nothing more than to nod at that point. “Then I’ll leave Alistair and Ser Perth to show you to the rooms you can use,” he said. “I need to see to my nephew and brother now.” He looked at Alistair and gave a slight nod, and Alistair returned it with a tight, strained smile.

“Thank you, Bann Teagan,” Yllia murmured, and then turned to look at Alistair, relief in her eyes.

Relief that faltered when she met Alistair’s gaze. Her eyebrows drew together in troubled confusion, and Alistair wasn’t surprised -  his feelings were probably lain bare for all of them to see. “Alistair…?”

“We need to talk,” Alistair said bluntly. “Ser Perth, can you take care of the rest of our companions?”

“Of course,” the guard captain said with a nod, motioning to Leliana and the others to follow him. The red-haired woman cast a hesitant glance in Alistair and Yllia’s direction, punctuated by the piercing glare that Morrigan was fixing on Alistair. He ignored it. There were more important things for him to focus on right now.

“Yllia…?” Jowan eyed Alistair warily, edging a touch closer to her.

“Go with the others, Jowan,” Yllia said, her eyes staying on Alistair. “Leliana, can you make sure he gets something to eat…?”

“Of course,” Leliana said softly, coming over and touching Jowan’s shoulder lightly. With a smile to Yllia and another uncertain look to Alistair, she led the other mage back towards the group.

Alistair turned on his heel and walked out of the room with purposeful steps, leaving Yllia to catch up to him, her earlier exhaustion forgotten in her worry over Alistair’s sudden mood change. She couldn’t remember seeing such an expression in his eyes before, much less directed at her. It was a startling reminder of how short a time she’d really known the other Grey Warden, and she couldn’t suppress the uneasy feeling working its way through her.

She followed him to the second floor, and they stopped in front of a door at the end of one hall. Alistair fumbled with the door for moment, then shoved it open and motioned for her to go in. Once she had, he shut the door behind them and lowered the bar. Yllia braced herself; it felt as if she were watching the calm before a storm, and that storm was going to roar in at any moment.

And roar it did. The moment the bar was settled Alistair spun around with a look of pure anger on his face. “What are you _doing?_ ” he demanded. “You can’t just throw around the Warden’s conscription for no reason like that! Sure, we’re allowed to use it on whoever we want and no one is allowed to object, but we aren’t supposed to _abuse_ that power!”

Yllia’s eyes widened, her lips parting in shock at his outburst. “You’re…” Her cheeks flushed suddenly. “Well, what you have had me do?” she countered. “If he was left to Redcliffe he’d be executed – if he were sent to the Circle, he’d either be executed or made Tranquil! Was I just supposed to stand by and let it _happen?_ ”

“He nearly killed Connor, and Arl Eamon might still die!” Alistair snapped angrily. “If he does, then you’ll have just conscripted a murderer!”  

“Don’t care him that!” Yllia snapped fiercely, her eyes flashing with an inner fire. “He didn’t force Connor to become possessed, and you heard him yourself – he was coerced into poisoning the arl by Teyrn Loghain. He was _scared_ , Alistair. Scared and lost in a world that he knows nothing about. He was brought to the Circle when he was three years old. _Three_ , Alistair! He’s never known anything about the outside world. He was a Chantry-born orphan who was delivered to the Circle at the very first hint that he had magic. At least _you_ were old enough to know what you were missing when the Templars took you in – Jowan never even had a _chance_.”

“He’s a blood mage, Yllia.”

She bristled at his tone. “And that automatically makes him evil incarnate?” she asked. “Is that you talking, Alistair, or the Templars? Didn’t you tell me when we met that you didn’t agree with the way the templars treated mages? Isn’t that why you said you were glad to be conscripted into the Wardens – which, excuse me for pointing out, aren’t exactly made up of paragons of virtue? I distinctly remember Duncan telling me himself that the Wardens count blood mages among their ranks…hell, the _Joining_ is practically a blood magic ritual all its own. Blood magic isn’t evil, Alistair. It’s what mages _do_ with it the makes it evil!”

She saw Alistair flinch and took a certain amount of pride in it – she’d just paraphrased what Alistair had told her the day they’d met, his reasoning for leaving the templars. He struggled for a response, for a way to get the argument back on some sort of solid footing. His jaw clenched when he found one.

“You say blood magic isn’t evil, but it comes from demons,” Alistair countered. “And demons _are_ evil – they _embody_ evil at its core! Look at what the demon possessing Connor did!”

Yllia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was not the time for Magic 101, but she desperately wanted Alistair to understand. “Yes, demons are the primary source of blood magic knowledge, Alistair,” she said, opening her eyes and looking steadily into his, “but the magic doesn’t _come_ from them. Blood magic originates from within the caster – from _their_ blood. Usually mages get the knowledge of it from demons, being forced to make a pact with them in order to obtain it – that’s how an abomination is formed.

“But blood magic itself can be taught from various sources, just like any school of magic. There even used to be books on it! I…I don’t know how Jowan came to learn blood magic, Alistair, and I have every intention of asking him… but I won’t _condemn_ him for something that he did in a fit of desperation! Jowan’s _not_ a bad person, Alistair. He’s not power hungry, he’s not evil, he’s just…he’s _scared_.” She looked up at him pleadingly. “Please, Alistair. I failed him once, I can’t do it again.”

Alistair looked at her, an array of emotions flickering in his hazel eyes – anger and frustration warring with sympathy and uncertainty. Finally he let out a sigh, shaking his head and pushing his hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said shortly. “I’m not going to be able to change your mind anyway. But you _do_ realize that you’ve just conscripted someone without any knowledge of how to perform a Joining, right? And I’ve only stood at ceremony, I’ve never actually prepared for it.”

At the mention of the Joining, Yllia felt herself pale. She hadn’t considered the deadly ritual when she’d made her declaration. Her throat tightened as she realized that by conscripting Jowan, she was forcing him to undergo a ritual that could very likely result in his death. It was no better an option than what the templars had in store for him.

 _Except he’d still have a chance_ , she thought. Arl Eamon – or Arlessa Isolde should her husband fail to recover – would likely execute Jowan for his role in the events at Redcliffe. The templars would make him Tranquil because of his blood magic. Only with the Grey Wardens, and the Joining, did Jowan have _any_ hope of survival. Even if it was a slim one, she still had to give him that chance.

“There’re no rules that say a Joining _has_ to be done immediately, are there?” she asked, attempting to keep her tone light. “When the Wardens do it is our business alone, right?”

Alistair sighed. “Right,” he relented. “We can claim a lack of resources right now, but if you plan on keeping him away from the templars for good it’s going to have to happen eventually.”

“I know. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, though. I just can’t stand by and do nothing.” She looked down for a moment, then lifted her head and reached out to touch his arm. “Thank you, Alistair.”

To her surprise, Alistair took a step back, pulling his arm away. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said quietly. “I don’t trust him, and I can’t forget his part in everything that’s happened here, Yllia. Arl Eamon is on his deathbed, and he wouldn’t be there if your _friend_ hadn’t spooned poison into his drink.”  

Yllia’s hand dropped to her side. “Right,” she said softly. “I understand.”

Alistair nodded slightly, and then turned towards to door. “I’ll leave you to eat and rest,” he said over his shoulder. He started to push the door open – then hesitated. “Thank you for helping Connor, Yllia.” Then he was gone, the door sliding shut behind him.

Yllia sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling weary in so many ways. Once again her impulsiveness had caused another tangle in the already complicated web of her life. Alistair’s words, his tone of voice…had she salvaged Jowan’s friendship only to lose Alistair’s?

She hoped not. Alistair was the first person outside of the Circle to truly _accept_ her. To talk with her as if she were a normal person, not a mage, not something tainted by the so-called curse of magic. She could cast her spells in front of him and he wouldn’t flinch; she could talk about her life in the Tower and he would _understand_. He trusted her, and the thought of _losing_ that trust was a chilling prospect for her.

The ironic thing was, if not for Jowan’s blood magic, she had a feeling the two of them could get along.

A light knock on the door signaled the arrival of a tray of food, which Yllia quietly accepted, but when she looked at the meal she found that her appetite had gone from ravenous to nonexistent. She set the tray aside and stretched out on the bed, staring up at the planked ceiling above. All at once she could feel the heavy blanket of exhaustion wash over her, her mind and body both growing lethargic as the strain of the events of the past several days at last took their toll upon on. A few moments later she drifted into a deep sleep, slipping beyond the reach of dreams.

Save for the fleeting remembrance of a glowing eye that soon faded away into nothing.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Far beneath Ferelden, the dragon spread his wings and raised his head high, screaming into the desolate darkness.


	20. Looking Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had no idea of what would be waiting for them on the other side of the Waking Sea, but whatever it was, it had to be better than what they were leaving behind.

_Gwaren_

“How is she?” Hawke looked at his brother as Carver stepped out of the other room, his expression pinched and weary. His hair had grown shaggy due to lack of maintenance, and there was a two day’s growth in his cheeks and chin. Given that Carver normally preferred to keep himself a lot more clean-shaven, it was a visible testament to the trials they’d faced in the recent past days.

“Sleeping,” Carver said with a shake of his head. “Mother’s still sitting with her. The chirugeon came by to check on her a bit ago, change her bandages and such. He says she’s still delicate, but that if she keeps getting rest, she’ll pull through.”

“I don’t know if we’re going to be able to let her have that rest,” Hawke said grimly. “Aveline and I were talking to the guards. Signs of the darkspawn are getting closer and closer – there’s more game in the surrounding areas than there’s ever been before the wildlife is being pressed eastward. There’s a good chance Gwaren is going to find itself blocked in.”

Carver let out a few choice words, none of them appropriate for company, and dropped down to join his brother on the wooden bench he was sitting on. “We can’t stay here,” he said. “But what are we going to do? We can’t move Bethany.”

“We’re going to have to, because you’re right – we can’t stay.” Hawke shook his head, his expression drawn. “Aveline’s down at the docks seeing if she can get us passage on a ship. I offered to help, but she insisted she could do it alone…I think she’s looking for _anything_ to distract her.”

“Can you blame her?” Carver shrugged a shoulder. “She had to kill her husband. I’d want something to occupy myself with, too.”

“ _She_ didn’t kill him,” Hawke said fiercely. “The darkspawn did. She just cut his agony short.”

“I’m not so sure she sees the difference,” Carver muttered. “Sort of like how Mother can’t seem to see the difference between that ogre being responsible for Bethany, and the two of us for not being able to stop it from happening.”

“Mother’s upset,” Hawke said with a shake of his head, “and worried. Once Bethany recovers she’ll be her usual self again.” Loch padded up and shoved his head into Hawke’s hands, and he absently rewarded the mabari with a firm ear scratching. “Besides… _I’m_ the one she won’t talk to, not you.”

“But in the end you’ll still be the one she looks to for all the decisions.”

Hawke bristled at the acidic taint to Carver’s words, and he looked over at his brother quietly. Carver’s eyes were focused on the opposite wall, jaw clenched and expression drawn tight. It wasn’t the first time he’d made such a comment since they’d fled Lothering, but they were becoming more and more frequent. At first Hawke had just attributed it to the stress of the darkspawn and worry over Bethany’s condition, but he was starting to get tired of being Carver’s verbal punching bag.

“And what would you be doing any differently?” Hawke asked. “We didn’t have much of a choice when it came to which port we were taken to – we were at the mercy of a Witch of the Wilds, in case you’ve forgotten. Amaranthine might have been out of the darkspawn’s path, but it’s also a lot further away and there’s no guarantee that Bethany would have made it that far.”

“You could have healed her,” Carver said with a scowl.

“I could have _maintained_ her,” Hawke corrected. “I’m not a healer, Carver – that’s _Beth’s_ specialty, not mine. I could have kept her alive, but I’m not strong enough to heal her and eventually her injuries would have been too much for me to sustain her.” And it wasn’t as if his own magic could be given credit for Bethany’s life anyway – though he hadn’t said as much to the others, he knew that the real hero of the occasion was the amulet that was currently hanging around his sister’s neck. There was power in that piece, far more power than he had expected. Yllia _had_ said that it was for healing, but he’d never imagined it would hold as much strength as it seemed to. It made him wonder about the mage who was behind its creation.

Carver’s scowl had only deepened with Hawke’s response, and he leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs and letting his head hang. Hawke recognized the posture – it was one their father had affected often when he was alive when faced with circumstances that displeased him but could not be changed. “Not like we could argue with a witch who could turn into a dragon and set us on fire if she felt like it,” he grumbled. He eyed his brother for a moment. “You know, we _could_ just take a ship up to Amaranthine. They say the horde hasn’t moved that far north.”

Hawke gave his brother an incredulous look. “Maker’s breath, Carver, you were _at_ Ostagar!” he exclaimed. “You _saw_ what those things are capable of – what they did to the armies, what they did to Lothering. No place in Ferelden is safe. Even if we went to Amaranthine, we’d just have to evacuate again eventually.” Hawke shook his head. “The best option for us right now is Kirkwall. Not only is it the closest Free March port, but we’ve got family there.”

“Family that neither you nor I have ever met, and that Mother hasn’t seen since before she married Father,” Carver reminded his brother. “We’ve no idea if Uncle Gamlen would be willing to put us up, or if he’s even still _in_ Kirkwall. For all we know he’s pissed away the entire Amell estate and lives in some hole-in-the-wall.”

Hawke grimaced; unfortunately he knew that Carver’s concerns were valid, even if they weren’t exactly welcoming. Leandra hadn’t spoken to her older brother since eloping with their father, and it was only through one of Malcolm’s contacts that she’d even find out about her parents’ passing. It felt odd to Hawke to think that there was an entire family branch that they’d never met, and if not for the current circumstances likely never would have.

“It’s still better than haring off to a place none of us knows,” Hawke said with a sigh. “Mother at least grew up in Kirkwall. If we can’t find a place there, there are other cities we can go to. But staying in Ferelden _isn’t_ an option.”

“I hate it,” Carver muttered. “I hate that we’re just…taking off, and leaving everyone else to deal with the darkspawn. Like those Wardens… they told me, you know, that they were the only ones who survived. Two Grey Wardens, and if the legends are right we’re supposed to rely on them to fight these things.” He looked down at his hands. “It doesn’t seem right. Or fair.”

“At the risk of sounding like Father, life hardly ever seems fair.” Hawke shook his head. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Carver. But right now we have to make sure Mother and Bethany are safe. We’ll worry about things like fairness and duty after that.” He stood up, suddenly restless, tossing his hair over his shoulder and walking over to the only window in the small room. Resting his arm on the sill, he stared out at the busy streets of Gwaren. Guards, merchants, servants, fishermen, all of them hurried about, carrying out their day to day tasks as they always did. But if looked at close enough the frantic touch to their steps became visible, the haggard expressions and eyes full of wariness and fear. The city walls were being fortified, the presence of the guard increasing. And yet Hawke knew that it wasn’t enough. The strongest of the soldiers of Gwaren were already north and west with the remainder of Teyrn Loghain’s army, and who knew how many of those still remained?

It was a chilling reminder that time was running out.

“Hey, Garrett.” Carver’s low voice cut through his thoughts. “About that thing that witch gave you—“

“Aveline’s back,” Hawke interrupted suddenly, catching sight of the red-haired woman weaving her way through the crowd towards their room. “Let’s hope she’s got us some good news.”

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

The air was thick with the anticipatory scent of battle, permeated by the underlying blanket of fear. The people of Gwaren knew that they were living on a time bomb. Lothering, though further west, was also north of where the coastal teyrnir lay. And though Gwaren was several times the size of the other village, it was likewise caught right in the path of the horde. Everyone knew it, from the highest guard to the lowliest fishmonger. Unless the horde was stopped, and soon, Gwaren’s future looked dismally like Lothering and Ostagar’s.

The thought of Ostagar brought an ill quivering to Aveline’s stomach. She pushed the thoughts of it – and the accompanying memories – firmly from her mind. Letting herself get caught up in that would be detrimental to the current situation. Every day brought danger closer to Gwaren, and both she and Hawke agreed that if they were going to have any chance at surviving, they were going to have to get out before it became too late. And that meant leaving Ferelden. There would be no _escaping_ the horde so long as they remained on this side of the Waking Sea – they would only be desperately and futilely attempting to outrun it.

She’d learned the hard way what happened when you failed.

“Stop it, Aveline, _”_ she muttered under her breath in frustration. This was not the time to give in to guilt and pain. And no, those were _not_ tears that were blurring her vision; she’d simply caught some dust in her eye. She refused to appear weak. She had a task to carry out and she would do it, if only to help Hawke and repay him the debt she owed for his aid. Through unspoken agreement it had been decided that she would accompany them out of Ferelden, and she was determined to pull her own weight. And if that meant bartering passage on a ship while Hawke took care of his mother and sister, then so be it.

As soon as she reached Gwaren’s docks, however, she was reminded of why _she_ had never been the one chosen to handle negotiations in the past. After speaking with the harbormaster and ascertaining which ships would be leaving port within the next days, she began to seek out the captains of each. The first two were already full up on refugees, the third was cargo only, and the fourth was instead striking a course eastward towards Antiva and Rivain.

“If it’s Kirkwall yer wantin’,” the last captain said after turning her down, “you might try Lawson down at the end of the docks. Hear tell he might be makin’ a run up that way. Normally it’s _The Siren’s Call_ handling that passage, but talk has it she’s avoiding the southern waters on account of the darkspawn. Word t’the wise, though – stay on yer guard with ‘im, lest you find yerself with more’n you can handle.”

Aveline raised an eyebrow at that - it was rare when someone commented about _her_ finding more than she could handle. “Thank you,” she said with a slight nod of acknowledgment. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, however.” Bidding the man farewell and leaving him to his cargo, she headed down the length of the docks towards the last ship tied up in the row.

As sea-faring vessels went it didn’t seem especially large, though admittedly she wasn’t that well-versed in watercraft. All _she_ cared about was that it was big enough to carry the six of them (seven, if you included the mabari), that it could float, and that it was going in the direction of Kirkwall.

The ship was called _Destrier_ – a rather odd name for a vessel, but who was Aveline to judge – and after a moment of staring thoughtfully at it she noticed a blonde man with a handlebar moustache stacking cargo crates on the dock next to her. No one else appeared to be around – perhaps the rest of the crew was on the boat?

She made her way carefully towards him, cautious to not get tangled up in any of the lines draped over the dock boards. “Excuse me,” she said once she was close enough. “I’m looking for Lawson.”

The man straightened up and turned, narrowing his eyes in response. “Whaddya want with him?” he asked, his moustache twitching as he spoke. Both his eyes and his tone were laden with suspicion.

“I’m seeking passage on a ship to the Free Marches for me and my companions,” Aveline replied, “specifically to Kirkwall. I was told this ship might be headed that way.” She nodded slightly at the vessel.

The man scowled. “Aye, she _was_ ,” he said, “’til her crew decided to up an’ ditch an’ leave her and me both stranded. You’d think they’d be itchin’ t’get outta here what with th’ Blight comin’ and all. Bloody bastards, all’a them.”

Aveline gave a slight raise of her eyebrow. “ _You’re_ Lawson, then, I take it?” she asked.

“Aye.” He grabbed a rag up off a crate and wiped at his hands. “Lawson Hendyr, Free March native an’ captain extraordinaire, at yer service.” He extended his hand, and looked mildly surprised when she actually took it. “ _Destrier_ an’ I mostly handle th’ cargo runs back an’ forth between the Free Marches and Ferelden, but I’m wagerin’ our next trip out is gonna be th’ last for a good long while.” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “If we can get out’a here, that is. Don’ suppose you know anyone able to help crew a cargo ship?”

Aveline looked at the _Destrier_ , and frowned slightly. “How many people do you need?” she asked.

Lawson sighed. “At least three t’help get ‘er launched. After that, jus’ one person t’handle the crow’s nest, an’ I can take care’a the steerin’. I know these waters like th’ back’a my hand, but even _I_ can’t launch a ship with jus’ my two hands.”

An idea was beginning to blossom. It was a long shot, but it just _might_ work. “How hard is it?” she asked. “If you had the help, could you show them what to do if they’ve never been on a ship before?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe,” he said. “Everyone’s gotta start at some point I s’pose. Lemme guess. You’ve got yerself a couple’a strappin’ young men who need passage outta this place and might be willin’ t’work for it?”

“And me,” Aveline replied calmly, though her eyes held a challenge in them.

Lawson inclined his head slightly, eyeing her – and then nodding, as if he liked and approved of what he saw. “I like ye, lass,” he said with a grin. “Ye’ve got a good head on yer shoulders.” He paused, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. “Ye know, I got me a nephew in Kirkwall ‘round yer age, mebbe bit older…”

“Not interested,” Aveline said firmly, cutting him off before he could finish the suggestion that he clearly intended to make.

He chuckled. “Yer not one for beatin’ ‘round th’ bush, are ye? Ah, well, can’t blame a man for tryin’. No matter. Ye go get them boys a’ yours, and we’ll see what we can do ‘bout gettin’ my _Destrier_ sea-worthy.”

Aveline knew, logically, that she should have been irritated by his shallow attempt at matchmaking, but it was overshadowed by her relief and her determination. They had a way out of Gwaren. True, it was a little more complicated than just booking passage, but given that between the five of them they had barely a sovereign between them, she wasn’t about to turn her nose up at the offer.

“Give me a couple of hours,” Aveline promised, “and you’ll have your crew.”

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

By the time Aveline returned to the docks and the _Destrier_ , she had not only Hawke and Carver in tow, but half a dozen other men hoping to barter labor in exchange for passage for either themselves or their families. After half an hour of bartering with Lawson to make arrangements for as many as they could, they began to arduous task of loading the ship and preparing her for departure. Truth be told Aveline was surprised that Lawson had managed to find a way to bring _everyone_ – when she’d counted her volunteers and their extended families she’d been worried for a moment that there wouldn’t be room and some would have to be turned away. She voiced as much to Hawke at one point, as they double-checked the anchor and the mooring ropes.

“You didn’t notice?” Hawke asked, raising an eyebrow at Aveline in response.

She looked puzzled. “Notice what?”

He nodded towards a stretch of dock that cut horizontally in front of the _Destrier_ , and for the first time Aveline noticed a pile of shipping crates and barrel stacked at the end of it. “He had Carver and me moving that stuff out of the hold not too long ago,” Hawke replied. “When I asked why, he said something about not wanting to overweigh the ship.”

Understanding dawned on Aveline, and a smile touched her lips. For all his gruffness the captain kept on surprising her.

They finished with their task in relative silence then, preferring to sacrifice conversation in favor of alacrity. As they straightened up Aveline winced, reaching up to rub at her shoulder in discomfort. Swords and shields and suits of armor she was used to; manhandling a multi-ton anchor she was not.

“Sore?” Hawke asked.

“A touch,” she admitted. “I’ll be fine so long as I don’t aggravate it while it still hurts.”

Hawke glanced around before lowering his voice to a near whisper. “If you’re…okay with it,” he said, “I can take care of it later, when we go back to the room for Bethany and Mother.”

The hesitation in his eyes surprised Aveline for a moment. She knew he was a mage, had seen him working to heal Bethany, as well as tend to his brother and mother,  so why did he seem to feel as if his offer might not be welcome? It wasn’t as if Aveline had any particular feelings concerning mages, apostate or not…

Oh.

Her chest tightened.

“You don’t have to tiptoe around me, Hawke,” Aveline said quietly. “I may have married a Templar, but that doesn’t mean I shared in his views. I judge a person’s worth by their actions, not by their birth.” She looked at him with an unwavering gaze, her eyes steady and firm.

Hawke couldn’t help but look back at her. He hadn’t forgotten the way she’d stood up for them when Wesley had confronted them about being apostates. Whereas Wesley had been ready to do his duty as a Templar, even while surrounded by darkspawn who really didn’t give a damn _what_ side of the Chantry a person was on, Aveline had responded with practicality and had convinced him to stand down. Until this moment, though, Hawke hadn’t been sure whether or not that had been a reflection of Aveline’s views, or just her sense of prioritization.

It was, he know realized, a combination of both.

He smiled at her, tension draining out of his shoulders as he did so. “Thanks, Aveline,” he said quietly. “I just…I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t know how to approach it.”

She returned his smile, though her own was strained. “It isn’t as if it’s a subject that would come up in normal conversation,” she said. “I hope that assuages your concern, and that you won’t be pressed to insult me again by assuming I’d hold your birth against you.”

The rather imperialistic tone drew a bark of laughter from the redhead, and Hawke shook his head, his grin broadening. “No,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll make _that_ mistake again, thank you very much.” He tilted his head back and looked up at the sun. “Starting to get on in the day. Let’s go let Captain Hendyr know we’re done, and see what else there is to handle. The sooner we can get out of there, the easier I think I’m going to be able to breathe.”

Aveline wasn’t sure if that would ever be possible again, but she nodded her agreement. She had no idea of what would be waiting for them on the other side of the Waking Sea, but whatever it was, it had to be better than what they were leaving behind.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Alistair leaned against the stone parapet lining the top of Redcliffe keep. Some things, he noted mundanely, rarely changed. The top of the keep still provided the best view of the rest of the castle, as well as the village below and the arling that stretched out beyond it. From this height his could easily make out the deceptively calm waters of Lake Calenhad, and if he squinted a bit against the sunlight, the high-rising column of Kinloch Hold in the very distance. With the sun shining down and the sky a clear blue, the view to the north and east was stunning.

When his gaze swerved south, however…

He turned away from the darkened landscape, the columns of smoke that still curled up into the sky from the direction of Lothering and the Wilds, and leaned back against the parapet. With a sigh he looked down at the rose in his hand, running his thumb idly along the long thorn-dotted stem.

“Somehow the contrast of that sword at your side and the rose in your hand doesn’t quite match the mental image in my mind.”

Alistair looked up, startled. “Bann Teagan?” He figured his detour up here wouldn’t go unnoticed, but he’d figured that if anyone would have come up to talk to him it would have been Leliana – or Morrigan, if only to give him a hard time. But the _last_ person he would have expected to appear was the man walking towards him now.

Teagan smiled. “I’m sorry if I surprised you,” he said. “I couldn’t find you in any of the guest rooms – and then I remembered how much of a fondness you had for high places when you were a boy. I figured the walls would be the closest and easiest point for you to reach.”

Alistair felt heat rush to his cheeks, and he quickly lowered his gaze back to the rose. “I’m surprised you remembered,” he said. “That was a long time ago.”

Teagan nodded. “What was it…ten years?”

“Twelve. I was sent to the Chantry ten years ago, but you were too busy in Rainesfere the last two years to visit Redcliffe.” Alistair sighed and tilted his head back, squinting slightly as he stared up at the sun. “Something about a drought, or maybe it was bandits…I can’t remember.”

“That’s right.” Teagan nodded in recollection. “We had a season of failed crops one year, and then the next I had to deal with an onslaught of bandits trying to take advantage of my people. By the time I made it to Redcliffe again, you were already gone.” He let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Alistair. Maybe if I’d been able to talk to my brother, I could have convinced him not to send you away.”

Alistair looked at Teagan, surprised. “Are you….you’re not _blaming_ yourself for that, are you?” Alistair asked incredulously. That Teagan might actually think himself _responsible_ for the fact that Arl Eamon had sent him off to be a Chantry ward at the tender age of ten was…was… he knew there was a word for it, but with this revelation boggling his mind he just couldn’t think of it. “It’s not _your_ fault. I mean, I’m not even mad at Arl Eamon, not anymore. It’s not like he _had_ to take care of a scullery maid’s son for ten years.”

“You’re not _just_ a scullery maid’s son, Alistair,” Teagan said softly.

Alistair winced, brushing his thumb absently against one of the rose petals. “I guess that’s true,” he muttered. “Maybe a king’s bastard _does_ rate a bit higher on the scale.” _Oo, is that_ bitterness _in your tone, Alistair?_ his inner thoughts mocked him. _How_ quaint.

_Shut up_ , he shot back in irritation. Oh, great. Now he was arguing with himself.

“It has nothing to do with _that_ , either,” Teagan interjected, sharp enough that it quieted the snarky side of Alistair’s thoughts. Sharp enough that it actually made Alistair flinch, and for a moment he felt more like the eight-year-old stable boy of his past than the twenty-year-old Grey Warden warrior he was now.  “Who your parents were or were not doesn’t make you any less of a person, Alistair, and it certainly doesn’t give anyone the right to treat you like you are. I told you that once before, didn’t I?”

He had, and Alistair felt a rush of shame at having forgotten. That had been one of the most difficult trials of his young (at the time) life. He’d only been eight years old, old enough to be able to understand the maliciousness of gossip and the cruel callousness that the nobility could be capable of. It had been about that time that rumors of his parentage had begun to circulate. Most of the gossip had focused on the theory that he was Eamon’s son, which the Arl’s young bride had _not_ been appreciative of, but a few of the nobles had begun to notice a certain resemblance between Eamon’s charity case and the Crown Prince of Ferelden. Eamon had done his best to quash those rumors before they spread too far among the nobility, but not before Alistair had overheard some particularly nasty comments. Already being teased by the other stable boys for having no father to claim him, the combination of the two had had a severe impact on young Alistair’s fragile self-esteem.

It had been Teagan who had found him curled up and in the corner of one of the mabari cages, surrounded by pups and crying into his sleeves. He’d coaxed the boy out and reassured him, drying his eyes and treating him as more of a person than _anyone_ else ever had before. Arl Eamon might have given him a place to live, but it had been Teagan who had given him a friend.

“I never had the chance to thank you,” Alistair said abruptly.

Teagan raised an eyebrow. “Thank me?” he inquired. “For what?”

“For being honest with me,” Alistair replied. “For not shielding me from the truth about who my father was, even though I know it was meant to be kept a secret. It…meant a lot to me.” He kept his eyes on the rose, turning the stem slowly between his fingers, mindful of the thorns. “I still don’t know if I ever _meant_ anything to my father, and I guess I never will, now… but at least I _know_. When I lived in the Chantry orphanage I met several other boys who had no idea who their parents were. And I saw how it ate some of them up. I remember thinking how easily that could have been me – but thanks to you, I never had that problem. Even if I couldn’t tell anyone else, _I_ knew, and that’s what mattered.”  

“It was the right thing to do,” Teagan replied quietly. “I wasn’t originally brought into confidence on the matter, and I never completely agreed with my brother’s handling of the situation. Keeping your heritage quiet from the masses was one thing; hiding it from _yourself_ was another entirely. I figured it out when I began noticing the resemblance between you and Cailan – I think it would have only been a matter of time before _you_ noticed it as well.”

“I met him once, you know,” Alistair said abruptly. “Cailan, I mean. Here, in Redcliffe. By accident. I was helping the weapons master set up for his next training class, and Cailan came into the armory. He looked at me, and I knew who he was…but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what _to_ say…I had no idea if he knew who I was or not. At any rate he was far more interested in the swords than he was in a potential brother, and we ended up not saying a word to each other.”

Something in Alistair’s tone made Teagan give him a sidelong glance. “How did you feel about that?” he asked softly.

“Sad. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Relieved. I don’t know.” Alistair sighed. “I mean, what if I _had_ said something, but he didn’t have any idea what I was talking about? Worse, what if he didn’t _believe_ me? It’s not like I had _proof_ or anything.” He went quiet for a moment. “And now he’s gone. They both are. The only family I’ve ever known about, and I’ll never know now if they even knew I _existed_.”

Teagan reached out and grasped Alistair’s shoulder. “You can’t dwell on the past, Alistair,” he said softly. “Maker knows I’ve spent my own share of time doing so, but it doesn’t get you anywhere. We could stand here and spout what ifs until we’re blue in the face, but it isn’t going to _change_ anything. Maric made his choices; so did Cailan. And now you have _yours_ to make.”

At the mention of choices, Alistair let out a low groan, and pushed a hand through his hair, making it spike more than usual. “Choices,” he said with a shake of his head. “Seems like all I’ve been doing since Ostagar is make _choices_.”

“Choices like whether or not to give that rose to a certain lovely elf?” Teagan asked with a humored smile.

“What? No! I mean…that’s not… _we’re_ not…” A dark flush spread its way across Alistair’s cheeks, leaving the young warrior stammering for some sort of response to Teagan’s unexpected question. He rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears matching his cheeks in embarrassment. “It’s not…it’s not like that, I barely know her, she hardly knows me, we’ve just…besides, she’d never…I mean, she’s strong, and brave, and…and _beautiful_ , and…Maker, I’m not being very convincing here, am I?” If Alistair had been a mabari, his ears would have been positively drooping.

“Not very, no,” Teagan agreed, unable to keep from chuckling at Alistair’s vain attempts at explaining away his crush.

“Am I being that obvious?”

“To everyone but her, I think.” When Alistair slumped against the stone parapet, Teagan reached out and clasped his shoulder. “Relax, Alistair. It isn’t as if anyone is going to tease you for it.”

“You obviously haven’t spent any time around Morrigan or Leliana,” Alistair grumbled. Then he sighed dejectedly. “And it’s not even that, really. I’ve just… I’ve never felt like this before. I don’t know how I’m supposed to handle it, that the _right_ thing to do is.”

“And that, Alistair, is one of the greatest mysteries when it comes to women – the art of courting,” Teagan said with a sage nod. “Even I still haven’t managed to solve it.”

“Hence why you’re still without a wife?” Alistair asked wryly, earning a chuckle from the other man in response. “I’m pretty sure that _nothing_ I do or say right now is going to be welcome, though… the last time I saw her I’m not sure which was louder, her hissing or my snarling.”

Teagan raised an eyebrow. “You two seemed on decent terms when you left the main hall – argument?”

“You could say that…Grey Warden business, mostly, but...” Alistair went silent, struggling with his thoughts. “What do you do when someone you trust does something that goes against everything you’ve ever believed?”

Teagan’s expression grew serious. “I take it this is about mage Jowan?” he asked quietly. Alistair couldn’t miss the strain in Teagan’s voice that came with the question, and he felt that stab of guilt once more.

Alistair nodded, pained. “I don’t know what to think about all of this. I mean…he _poisoned_ Arl Eamon. And even if he didn’t do it himself, it’s because of that that Connor was possessed and the people down in Redcliffe… _and_ he’s a maleficar. A blood mage! I never agreed with a lot of the Templar rhetoric about mages, but blood magic…the whole concept of it gives me chills. And yet…”

“And yet?” Teagan pressed when Alistair didn’t immediately finish his thought.

Alistair pushed his hand through his hair. “Well, I mean… _look_ at him. I always pictured blood mages as being like, tall and dark and sinister, with swooshy capes and huge hoods that cover their faces, living in dark caves where they summoned demons to do their demony things.” He ignored the returning amusement in Teagan’s eyes. “But Jowan’s nothing like that. He looks like he’d jump at his own shadow; I can’t imagine him summoning a demon and actually making a _deal_ with it. And as for the poison, if he really _was_ hired by Loghain…”

“I wish I could say that I can’t believe that,” Teagan said heavily, “but I can’t. I was there, in Denerim, when Loghain made the announcement about Cailan. I wasn’t the only noble who was bothered by the accounts that he pulled out his army instead of reinforcing Cailan’s. And I don’t believe for a _moment_ that the Grey Wardens conspired to betray the Crown. All of _that_ stems from some deep-seated paranoia on Loghain’s part; Maric himself vouched for Duncan.”

Alistair frowned slightly. “Paranoia?”

Teagan nodded. “There were some incidents, about twenty years back or so… not long before you were born, actually. I never learned the details, though, Maric never talked about them to myself or Eamon. I’m not even sure he told Loghain. I just know that it led to the reinstatement of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden.”

Alistair nodded. “Duncan was second-in-command then. He only became commander a couple of years ago, at least that’s what he told me.” He pressed his lips together. Talking about Duncan, about Ostagar and Loghain, wasn’t exactly his favorite past time. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with Jowan, though.”

“It doesn’t – but it has to do with Loghain. I’ve known him for years, and I can safely say that this is _not_ his normal pattern of behavior. The old Loghain would have never sent an assassin after my brother, but the Loghain I saw in Denerim? I wouldn’t doubt it. And I’m not too keen on punishing someone who was only manipulated into doing what he did.”

“You aren’t?” Alistair looked at him in surprise. “But Isolde…I mean, the Arlessa…”

“Isolde’s perspective is from that of a wife and a mother,” Teagan said quietly. “She holds Jowan solely responsible for what happened – I can see that it isn’t black and white. To be honest, Alistair, I’m _glad_ that Yllia did what she did. I would not have wanted to be the one to pass judgment upon him in my brother’s stead, nor did I relish the idea of turning him over to the Templars.”

Alistair suppressed a shudder. “Neither did I,” he admitted quietly. He couldn’t help recalling the look of panic that had appeared on Jowan’s face when that large Templar that attempted to muscle his way into control – no, Alistair knew exactly what would have been waiting for the mage if he’d been given over to the Templars. “I guess I _can’t_ really fault her for conscripting him. Not when I know what the alternatives are.” He sighed. “I made a real arse of myself, Teagan. It’s a wonder she’ll ever _talk_ to me again.”

“There are very few men in this world capable of admitting such a thing,” Teagan said with an understanding smile.  “And it’ll go a long way in making sure the latter happens, I promise you that. Want another piece of advice?” Alistair gave him an eager look. “Whatever you said to her, make certain you apologize. I saw her when we were fighting the undead. That is _not_ an elf whose bad side you want to be on.”

“Oh, you really have _no_ idea.”


	21. Omen Realized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I had a choice. Granted, the other alternatives sucked, but I still made the choice." - Yllia Surana

“There. I have brought you to her – now you must keep _your_ end of the bargain.”

The words registered dimly, so faint and distant that Yllia decided that they must have been nothing more than a product of her own imagination and a part of her dream. She curled up around her pillow, trying to keep herself in that hazy black realm between Fade and reality, seeking out a few more hours of unhindered sleep. She wasn’t ready to open her eyes and face the next day.

Something long, wet, and rough slid across her face.

Yllia’s eyes snapped open, and she managed to get her hand up and on the mabari muzzle that was leaning in for another lick just before could make contact again. “Rhys!” she exclaimed. “No! Down! How did you get _in_ here?” She was positive the mabari hadn’t been in her room when she’d fallen asleep, so how had he…

Her eyes went over to the now open door, and at the mage leaning against it, an expression of permanently affixed boredom upon her face. “Morrigan?” Yllia asked in confusion. “But I locked the door, how did you…you know what? Nevermind.”

Morrigan smirked; there was no other word to describe the expression on her face. “There are few doors that I cannot find my way through,” she replied cryptically. “As for the beast, he was pacing back and forth outside the locked door, keening softly in his incessant tones in an attempt to be allowed inside. And so we struck a deal, that I would grant him passage if he would rouse you from your slumber.”

“A deal, huh?” Yllia looked back to Rhys, who was wagging the stub of his tail so hard that his entire rear end was wiggling back and forth along with it. She felt a stab of guilt, and reached out to ruffle his ears. “Sorry boy,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to lock you out.” Alistair hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that the bond between a mabari and its master was stronger than anything.

“I might suggest you not let it happen again,” Morrigan said mildly. “I can’t imagine that our _esteemed_ hostess will be too thrilled to find the gouges in the wood of the door.” She looked as if she’d just tasted something foul.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Yllia said with a wince, seeing the evidence of the damage herself on the open door. She gave Rhys a look of exasperation; he just stood there panting happily and clearly looking proud with himself at having completed the bargain that he’d struck with Morrigan. The patented happy dog look eventually drew a soft laugh from the elf mage, and she reached out to ruffle his ears in affection.

When the mabari had had enough and settled himself on the floor next to the bed for a nap, Yllia turned back to Morrigan. “You don’t normally handle wake up calls, so I assume you wanted to talk to me about something? And it’s not something you can do in front of the others?”

“Quite.” The dark-haired woman nodded, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind her. “’Tis something that I would prefer to keep between the two of us. I expect that you’re the only one likely to understand what I must speak with you about at any rate, being a fellow mage.”

“Wynne’s a mage, too,” Yllia pointed out.

“And already proving herself to be something of a self-righteous busybody,” Morrigan replied in dry tones. “She, I suspect, would break a vow of silence in an instant if it went against her moralistic views, regardless of the consequence. You, I believe, are a bit more pragmatic than that.”

Her choice of words made Yllia cautious, and she looked at the other woman with a slight frown on her face. “Did you come to that conclusion because of Jowan?”

“In part,” Morrigan admitted, and Yllia didn’t bother trying to hide her surprise – she’d half-expected Morrigan to sidestep the issue. “Most would have taken his blood mage status as the final nail in his coffin, so to speak – you, on the other hand, spoke up in defense of him and even protected him with your conscription. I have heard the murmurs throughout the castle, particularly among those Circle mages and templars who still remain here; the reactions to your choice are mixed, and not in a pleasant way.”

Yllia sighed. “Let me guess,” she said dryly. “Half of them think that I’m either crazy-mad for conscripting a blood mage – or, if it’s from the mages, for conscripting a mage who hasn’t even been Harrowed and can’t hold a fire spell for less than sixty seconds without burning his fingers. The other half is probably accusing me of being a blood mage myself, suspecting me of making a pact with Connor’s demon.”

“That does about sum it up, yes,” Morrigan said with a nod. “You certainly do not appear to be their _favorite_ mage at present.”

Yllia laughed, her eyes twinkling impishly. “I never was,” she said. “Elven prejudice is as alive and well in the Circle as it is everywhere else, and my best friends…well, outcast by association and all that.” Her expression grew subdued and then quickly shuttered it, pushing back thoughts that she neither wanted nor had time to dwell on. Her hand went to her neck automatically, but instead of meeting the cold silver that had hung around it for so long she found only the slim vial of blood that served as a constant reminder of how much her life had changed in such a short amount of time.

“And you simply accept this?” Morrigan asked with a slight raise of her eyebrow. “Despite being the reason that they all live now?”

Yllia shrugged. “What matters to me are the opinions of the people I keep close, not the ones I know only as faces. The freedom to live my life the way _I_ choose to has always been more important than the popularity given to me by people I don’t know.”

“Yet here you are, a Grey Warden, put on this path by circumstance,” Morrigan replied. “Would you say that _this_ was a path _chosen?_ ”

Yllia shifted uncomfortably. “I had a choice,” she said. “I could have refused to take Duncan’s offer, or refused the Joining. Granted, the other alternatives _sucked_ , but I still made the choice. And I could have chosen to disappear, to try to get out of Ferelden as fast as possible instead of stick around and fight this Blight. Again, not the best choices, but…you see where I’m going with this.” She lifted her head to meet Morrigan’s amber-eyed gaze steadily. “There’s always a choice. Some of them are just a lot easier to make than others.”

“And what of your friend?” Morrigan inquired. “Will _he_ get the same choice, now that you’ve decided to conscript him into your Wardens?” The way that Morrigan posed the question made Yllia uneasy; did she _know_ , despite it being the well-guarded secret Alistair and Duncan had both claimed, what would happen to recruits who refused or failed the Joining? The panicked, desperate image of Jory’s face, the twisted pain and wide-eyed stare of Daveth’s, both flashed across Yllia’s mind unbidden. And then it wasn’t their faces she was seeing at all, but Jowan, and she gave an uncontrollable shudder as she swallowed by the bile.

_Could_ she force Jowan into going through the Joining without allowing him to understand the risks involved?

Morrigan stared at her, watching the bare emotions that were playing across Yllia’s face. “Oh for…do _not_ get that look on your face,” she said with clear aggravation. “You look as though I just told you your dog had drowned in the lake.” Rhys gave her an affronted look, and she ignored him. “I was _not_ criticizing your methods. You could hardly have done anything more, and ‘tis certainly a better option than handing him over to that great lug of a templar. Though certain survival is always preferable, a chance is better than none at all.”

The bereaved expression that had startled Morrigan so much began to fade, and the corners of Yllia’s mouth twitched with a touch of humor. “Why, Morrigan,” she said with feigned lightness, “you’re not _concerned_ , are you?”

The other woman’s eyes widened, and then instantly narrowed in a scowl. “Of course not,” she said abrasively, almost harsh enough to draw notice away from the twin spots of pink on her cheeks. “But you _are_ leading this ragtag band that we’ve assembled, and if I am to accompany you then I would rather you not drown yourself in second guesses and uncertainty. Alistair emasculates himself enough for all of us as is.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But this was _not_ why I came to speak with you. You recovered several items from the Circle Tower when you were there, did you not?”

The abrupt subject change made Yllia raise an eyebrow. “Some things,” she admitted. “I suppose I should have left them behind for the Circle, but I honestly wasn’t thinking about it at the time. Most of it was potions and ingredients, but there were a few other items as well.”

“You didn’t happen to retrieve an old grimoire, by any chance?”

Yllia stared at Morrigan. “You…might need to be a bit more specific about that,” she said. “This _was_ the Circle we’re talking about. Grimoires tend to grow on trees.”

Another scowl, but Morrigan complied. “The grimoire in question would be the size of a standard tome,” she said, bringing her hands together to show an approximation, “’Tis bound in black leather, and possesses the image of a tree burnished into the cover.”

Yllia frowned. “I’m not sure…no, wait. Maybe…” She got up and went over to her pack, tugging it open and rooting around inside of it. “Let’s see…huh. I didn’t think I’d picked up that much, but I guess I was wrong.”

Items began to come out of the bag, some of the carelessly piled, but a few she was careful with, examining them closely. The first was a white stone with a rune carved into it, which she turned over in her hand. “All the enchantment’s out of this, but maybe Alistair would like it,” she mused thoughtfully before setting it aside. “And this, Leliana might like…” to a Chantry amulet charred around the edges. Next came out a portrait boasting some water-stains, which Yllia frowned over slightly before setting it aside with a shrug. “I’ll figure something out.” A few random herbs and potions, and then a book that appeared to have seen better days. “The ‘Rose of Orlais’? Why did I…?” And then, “What in the world am I going to do with a gold bar _this_ small?”

Morrigan stared at the growing piles around her. “Precisely how much _do_ you carry around in there?” she asked in disbelief.

“I like collecting things,” Yllia said cheerfully. “If I’ve got room for it there’s no reason to leave it lying on the floor. Aha!” With a note of triumph she pulled two more items out of the bag and stood up. One, she tossed to Rhys, and the dog instantly pounced on the bone – a bone, Morrigan noted, that still had a shoulder of beef attached.

The second she brought over to Morrigan. “Is _this_ what you’re looking for?” she asked quizzically.

Morrigan quickly took the tome for her, affecting a nonchalant expression as she examined the cover, touching her fingers to the tree briefly before opening it to examine the contents. After a moment her eyes widened, and Yllia could not ignore the delight that she saw in her expression. “This is it,” she said. “Yes…yes, I’m certain of it. ‘Tis precisely what I was looking for.”

“You should have told me you were looking for something from the Tower,” Yllia said, pleased that she’d actually managed to do _something_ right in the eyes of the other mage. “I almost passed it up – I found it in Irving’s office.” She looked sheepish. “I probably _shouldn’t_ have taken it, he had it locked up, but I just…”

“Could not resist?” Morrigan finished. “’Tis understandable, as you had no way of knowing if he even lived or not at that point. _I_ would certainly have not passed up on an item of this caliber, had it been me instead of you.”

“What’s so special about this grimoire, anyway?” Yllia asked, curious despite herself. It was her one vice – when something piqued her interest, she had a tendency to latch onto it and shake it until every last piece of stuffing had come out. She’d driven the tranquil who managed the Circle libraries rather insane with her habits – or she would have, if the tranquil _could_ be driven mad. Usually they just reprimanded her, day after day, about putting away the dozens of books that she pulled down from the shelves instead of leaving them strewn about as she usually did. From her instructors the reactions had ranged from affectionate admonishment to out and out exasperation.

For a moment Morrigan didn’t respond, her eyes visibly tracking as they moved over the parchment pages. Just as Yllia was beginning to think that Morrigan had no intention of sharing information about what she held in her hand and had very well even forgotten that Yllia was _there_ , the other mage closed the book with a look of triumph on her face.

“This book,” she said, looking at Yllia, “once belonged to my mother.”

Yllia stared at her, and then at the grimoire she was holding. “Your mother?” she repeated in disbelief. “Flemeth? But…how in the world would something like _that_ end up in the hands of the Circle of Magi? I’d think she’d keep her grimoire under lock and key!”

“I know not the exact circumstances as to how this particular volume ended up in the hands of the First Enchanter,” Morrigan said, “but Mother has possessed many grimoires over the years. Most of have been destroyed – others are beyond my reach. I discovered the existence of this one by chance, but was only able to trace its location to Kinloch Hold.”

Yllia looked at her with interest. “Does Flemeth know that you’re looking for her grimoires?”

“Quite likely, given that I have never successfully managed to keep a secret from her during my lifetime,” Morrigan replied. She gave an indifferent shrug. “Doubtless she did not expect me to get my hands on any of them, but it matters not. I am likely to find nothing more than theory and commentary, but it will hopefully provide me with _some_ knowledge that she has otherwise deigned to keep to herself. I trust you do not mind if I keep this?”

Yllia tried to quell the sense of longing she felt – an unknown grimoire of Flemeth’s? Whether Morrigan’s mother was truly _the_ Flemeth or not didn’t matter, the woman was clearly capable of great magic and any grimoire of hers had to be ripe with knowledge. But Morrigan was her daughter, had learned her spellcraft under her, and was much more likely to get something out of the grimoire than Yllia ever was. “Go ahead,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’ve got more than enough to carry around as it is. Though…” She clasped her hands in front of her hopefully.

Morrigan gave a slight lift of one eyebrow, and then sighed. “Oh, very well. If I find anything you might find useful, I suppose I _might_ let you have a look at it.”

 Yllia’s eyes lit up, and she actually gave a slight bounce. “Really?” she asked. “Thank you! And I promise I won’t bother you about it. I imagine it’ll take you awhile to go through it.”

“True enough, that,” Morrigan acknowledged. “And so I believe I will get started.” Without so much as a farewell, Morrigan turned and left the room, leaving Yllia and Rhys alone.

Yllia watched her go, then stretched her arms over her head and turned to her mabari. “Well,” she said, resting her hands on her hips, “now that I’m awake and up, I suppose I ought to see if anyone needs me for anything. I don’t suppose you want to come with me?”

Rhys wagged his tail, but otherwise didn’t look up from the bone that he was currently gnawing into oblivion. Yllia wasn’t actually sure if _she_ was even the reason his tail was wagging.

“Right then. I suppose you can find me when you’re done.” Yllia gave the dog an affectionate smile, then walked over to her pack, taking a moment to start putting things back into it. When she picked up the runestone she’d gotten from the Tower she paused, turning it over in her hands. When she’d found it in the Tower Alistair had made a comment of interest, but they’d been attacked by a set of Rage Demons right after, and she’d slipped it into her pack without a second thought.

But now she and Alistair were… well, she didn’t _know_ what they were. They’d argued, clearly, but she wasn’t really sure if they were _still_ arguing or not, considering the rather ambiguous note that he’d her room on.

She didn’t _want_ to be fighting with Alistair, that much she knew for certain. However, she didn’t want to have to choose between her best friend and her… okay, so she didn’t know _what_ to call Alistair. Brother wasn’t quite right no matter what the Joining ritual said about Grey Wardens – she was fairly certain sisters did not have their hearts race the way that hers did whenever their brothers flashed them a grin. Friend? Well, yes, obviously (at least most of the time), even though they’d only known each other for a handful of weeks at this point. They’d fought together, they’d saved each other’s lives, and he’d confided one of his most closely kept secrets to her. That _had_ to qualify them as friends. A misunderstanding wouldn’t change that…would it?

Yllia sighed, closing her hand around the runestone and then slipping it into one of the inner pockets of her robes, and then checking to make sure it really was a pocket she’d put it in and not just an erroneous fold in the still-too-big-for-elves hand-me-down she was wearing. As much as she appreciated the emergency use of the robes that Hawke had given her, it occurred to her that she probably ought to see if Bann Teagan would have something she could take with her for when she didn’t _need_ magically enhanced clothing.

That reminded her – they were going to need before they could set out again, and not just a restock of food. They were bringing one extra person with them, and Jowan was going to need a change of clothes and his own sleeping arrangement as well. The tents they had _were_ two person, but the only one Jowan would likely feel comfortable in was her own, and as much as she liked Jowan she equally liked her privacy. There wasn’t much of it to be had these days.

It felt wrong to ask Bann Teagan for additional supplies when they would be stretched thin as it was providing for the castle inhabitants and the villagers, but Yllia couldn’t see how they had much choice. At least she’d be able to compensate for it; if there was one thing that they had in spades, it was coin. The number of bandits and bounty hunters who had come after them has they’d made their way towards Redcliffe and all been more than kind enough to drop spare coin or, in a few cases, what appeared to be their life savings.

Giving the top of Rhys’ head a pat, Yllia rose to her feet and left the room, leaving it slightly ajar so that Rhys could leave when he wanted to. One ear perked, the mabari listened to the sound of her receding footsteps, until he couldn’t hear her at all.

Abandoning the bone, Rhys pushed himself to his feet and flatted his ears atop his skull, baring fang and growling fiercely at the dormant fireplace that stood across from the bed, eyes blazing with anger. Green flames flared up within the confines of the metal grating, and a pair of reptilian eyes stared out from within. They locked with the snarling mabari, blinked once, and vanished.

Rhys didn’t move from where he stood, every muscle taut and posed. He didn’t know what the glowing green fire was, but he didn’t have to; he would not allow that which lurked within it to come near his mistress.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Locating Bann Teagan, Yllia quickly determined, had proven to be more difficult than she’d expected. She didn’t know her way around Redcliffe Castle, and she didn’t feel particularly comfortable snooping in areas she was unfamiliar with. Finally she’d tracked down Ser Perth and explained her dilemma – in turn, the guard captain had escorted her to the Arl’s office to wait while he in turn located the Bann for her.

As the door closed with a soft thud behind her, Yllia shook her head with a wry smile. “So they don’t want me wandering around the castle without an escort,” she said, “but they think nothing of letting me wait alone in the Arl of Redcliffe’s personal study.” She tapped her foot idly on the ground and looked around.

The room was an opulent sort of rustic, very different from the First Enchanter’s office in the Tower. Unlike the preferred décor of the Chantry, which always seemed to like to show off that its coffers through metal and stone were perhaps a bit more full than that of some of the Ferelden nobility (or so Yllia had heard Alistair griping about on occasion), here the primary material for the furnishings was wood. Wooden desk, wooden chairs, wooden shelving – though of fairly high quality. A bearskin rug covered the wooden floor beneath the desk, and heavy drapery hid what appeared to be either a second set of doors or a large window behind the desk itself.

Her curiosity was too much. She walked over and drew back the curtain – and blinked in surprise. There was neither window nor door behind it, but rather a painting instead. A painting of a woman, and it _wasn’t_ the Arlessa.

Why would Arl Eamon be hanging a portrait of a woman who was not his wife in his office? Puzzled, she located the rope for the drapery and drew it back so that she could see the painting in a better light. The woman was young – she might be in her early twenties – with long, wavy brown hair and emerald green eyes that somehow managed to sparkle with intellect even through the paint. There was something oddly familiar about her…

Yllia’s eyes widened. Of course! The shade of hair that matched Teagan’s, the eyes that were so much like Cailan’s – this had to be a painting of Queen Rowan, Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan’s older sister! Yllia had never seen her, of course – she’d died when Yllia would have just been a child, and being an elf Yllia never would have been in a position to see her any way. She had no doubt about who she was looking at, however.

“It’s not particularly polite to snoop, you know.”

Yllia jumped and spun around, letting go of the rope and causing the curtain to fall halfway into place. She turned to see Teagan standing behind her. Immediately she flushed with embarrassment at having been caught – she’d been so caught up with examining the painting that she hadn’t even heard him come in. “I’m sorry,” she immediately apologized. “I just…I saw the curtain, and I couldn’t help myself…”

He smiled at her and shook his head. “Please, don’t worry about it,” he assured her. “The portrait is rarely covered. I suspect one of the maids did it shortly after my brother took ill, to keep it from becoming damaged while the study remained out of use.” Teagan looked at the half-shrouded painting, a heart-weary look upon his face. “For the first time I find myself thankful that my sister passed long ago. It would break her heart to know of the events that have most recently come to pass.”

Yllia bit her lip. “I’m sorry about your loss, Bann Teagan,” she said softly. “I only met King Cailan once, but I know he was well-loved.”  

Teagan smiled sadly. “By most, at least,” he said heavily. “Though it isn’t only the death of my nephew I speak of. It is all of this… Rowan loved Ferelden, and its people. If she had lived to see…” His voice trailed off, and then he shook his head. “But that is neither here nor there. You have more important things to do than listening to the ramblings of an old man.”

“You’re hardly old, Bann Teagan,” Yllia corrected. He couldn’t have been much past thirty summers, and though that was certainly older than _she_ , it was by no means _old_. “There are mages in the Tower who would prefer the term _experienced_.”

Teagan chuckled at that, some of the heaviness vanishing from his expression. “Dare I ask what that experience is supposed to be in?” he quipped.

“Depends entirely on how much you know about the goings on in the Circle of Magi,” came Yllia’s immediate flippant response. The two of them exchanged a brief smile that ignored convention and status. Then Teagan sighed again, and stepped away from Rowan’s painting, letting the curtain fall once more into place.

“Ser Perth said that you were asking after me,” he said, abruptly changing the subject, “and I can’t imagine it was to discuss the past losses of my family.”

Yllia shook her head. “No, it wasn’t,” she said. “I think we’ll all agree that the sooner my companions and I are able to move out, the better. We’ve secured the aid of the mages, but if we’re to have any hope of meeting the archdemon’s army, we still need to approach the Dalish and the dwarves. And then there’s the matter of dealing with Loghain and the increasingly annoying bounty that he’s put on my and Alistair’s heads.”

Teagan looked simultaneously perturbed and disgusted. “I can’t figure out _what_ Loghain could be thinking,” he said with a shake of his head. “Pulling out the army and leaving Cailan, putting up this ridiculous bounty, sending an assassin to kill my brother… Loghain has always been ruthless in his actions, but he’s never been _mad_ , and these can only be the actions _of_ a madman!”

“Or a desperate one,” Yllia said softly. She bit her lip. She couldn’t help but think back to that night in Ostagar. She and Alistair had been tasked with lighting the beacon atop the tower, a seemingly easy task given that the tower had already been secured. No one had counted on the darkspawn breaking through from the basement and overrunning the tower. They’d gotten the beacon lit…but late. So very late, and Yllia had _known_ from the moment the flames had lit the kindling and set it ablaze.

From the tower window she’d only been able to see Loghain’s army. She’d had no way of knowing what was happening on the battlefield itself. Had Loghain’s retreat been an act of betrayal – or had it been the act of a man desperate to save what lives he could in a battle already lost? Unfortunately there was only one person who had that answer, and he was far more likely to throw her in prison than he was to answer her questions.

She looked at Teagan. “Bann Teagan, you were in Denerim before coming here to Redcliffe, weren’t you? You saw the teyrn then. Do _you_ think he purposefully betrayed the king at Ostagar?”

“I don’t know _what_ to think,” Teagan confessed. “Had you asked me before Ostagar I would have said there was no one more loyal to the crown than Loghain Mac Tir. The man had dedicated himself to supporting Ferelden and, more than that, to supporting Cailan and his father before him. He is one of Ferelden’s great Heroes. When King Maric disappeared at sea, Loghain personally led the search for him for two years, ending the search only at the insistence of his daughter Anora.”

Yllia frowned slightly, doing the mental calculations in her head. “That was…five years ago?” she asked. Even the Circle had gossiped about the King’s disappearance. “So Cailan would have been twenty, right?” The same age Alistair was now. “Loghain didn’t make any move to claim power at that point?”

Teagan shook his head. “No,” he said, “although my brother would claim differently. It’s true that a month later Cailan wed Loghain’s daughter, Anora – the marriage was heavily contested by many of the nobles, particularly those who also had daughters of marrying age. But Cailan and Anora had been betrothed since they were children, and the match had actually been _Maric’s_ idea, not Loghain’s, and with Teyrn Bryce Cousland’s support the dissenters eventually quieted.”

“Why did the nobles disapprove?” Yllia asked in confusion. “I’m no expert on politics, but isn’t a Teyrn as high a rank as you can get without being king yourself? I’d think the daughter of a teyrn would be the perfect match for a prince.”

Teagan chuckled. “Oh, without a doubt,” he said. “But Loghain was born the son of a farmer, and though he was Teyrn by the time Anora was born, many nobles still held it against them both. Then there was Anora herself – whereas other daughters contented themselves with their dresses and embroidery, Anora was much more likely to be found in armor, learning archery and swordsmanship. She often spent her time in the company of the noble _sons_ rather than the daughters – which might have been scandalous if not for the fact that when you saw them together, you were hard-pressed to see that Anora was a girl at all.”

Yllia tried to picture the Queen of Ferelden – whom she had never seen – in the way that Teagan was describing, and found herself rather amused at what her imagination was giving her. “She sounds like the sort of person I might like if I ever met her. What about her personality?”

“Sharp as a tack,” Teagan replied instantly. “She inherited her mother’s looks, but her mind undoubtedly came from her father’s side. I had the misfortune once of being present in Denerim when the two of them found themselves on opposite ends of an argument – to this day I’m still not sure which one of them won.”

He steepled his fingers together. “That’s another thing that concerns me. I saw Anora only once when I was in Denerim last – during the official proclamation of Cailan’s death and Loghain’s ascension to Regent. It was Anora who put Loghain up to the position, but… something was off about the entire situation. Normally I would trust her judgment in a heartbeat, but I wonder if she isn’t letting her grief over Cailan cloud her mind now.”

Teagan sighed. “I know you came here to Redcliffe seeking aid and support from my brother,” he said, “and I regret that I can’t make you any promises. If my brother were hale and healthy, he alone could give you enough backing to walk into Denerim without fear of arrest, regardless of any bounty. With him on his deathbed the line of succession would normally fall to Connor…”

“But he’s been outed as a mage now, and everyone knows mages can’t hold titles.” _Touche, Yllia, is that a hint of bitterness in your voice?_ When Teagan flinched, she felt instant contrition and shame. This was a man who, in a span of mere days, had had his entire world torn apart. Allowing her personal irritation at the general treatment of magi to be taken out on him was not only inappropriate, it was nearly cruel. She sought to soften her tone. “If the arl doesn’t make it, and Connor can’t inherit, who would the arling go to, then? Isolde?”

Teagan shook his head. “The arling would pass through right of blood succession,” he said, “and so would fall to my shoulders. If that were you happen you can be assured that I would give you my support in an instant, but that isn’t a power I have now. And it wouldn’t do you nearly the amount of good that having Eamon would – I don’t have the political influence _or_ experience that my brother does, and I’m afraid you will need both to face Teyrn Loghain.”

“Is there anyone else who would?” Yllia asked anxiously.

Teagan towards the map of Ferelden that hung on one wall; she followed his gaze. “Arl Bryland of South Reach holds no love for Teyrn Loghain,” he said, “and both Bann Sighard and Bann Alfstanna are reasonable enough that they would listen before outright rejecting. None of them, however, holds the political clout nor the army that you need. Perhaps if Bryce Cousland still lived…”

Yllia furrowed her brow in confusion. “The Teyrn of Highever?” she asked. “I heard he was executed for treason.”

“The day Bryce Cousland plotted treason against the Crown of Ferelden is the day that the Deep Roads become filled with silver and gold,” Teagan snapped vehemently. “ _No one_ was more loyal to the Crown than Teyrn Cousland – he fought alongside King Maric himself against the Orlesians. I don’t know what happened that night in Highever, but I do know this – that we have only Rendon Howe’s word of Cousland’s treason, and now it is Howe who stands at Loghain’s right hand.”

He turned back to Yllia, his expression pleading. “Warden Surana…Yllia…I know that I have no right to ask this of you, but I feel I have no other choice. Ferelden is rapidly unraveling, and without a united front we have no hope of driving back the darkspawn. Many nobles refuse to believe that this is a Blight unless the archdemon shows itself, but I believe that by then it will be too late for us. My brother could convince them otherwise, but only if he survives. Please – if there is _anything_ you can do to save him, I beg of you, it must be done.”

_It must be done._ Teagan was desperate, the same way that Jowan had been that day at Kinloch Hold. And just like then, she found herself helpless to turn him away.

“ _You just can’t turn anyone down, can you? Even if it means you’ve got to give up_ your _sleep and sacrifice_ your _studies to make sure that other people get theirs.”_

The memory of the teasing, chiding voice made Yllia’s chest tighten and her eyes blur. She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t banish it away. The words were right. Whether it was her strongest asset or her greatest flaw, Yllia had never been able to turn down someone who wanted her help.

And it wasn’t only that Teagan wanted her help – it was that he was _right_. If Arl Eamon died, their chances of convincing the nobles that the Blight was real, and that they weren’t the traitors Loghain claimed they were, would be next to nothing.

“I’ll try to find a way,” Yllia promised. “We have a lot of ground to cover to get these treaties filled – don’t give up yet, Bann Teagan. Just do everything that you can to keep your brother alive.”

Teagan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Even if nothing comes of it, just knowing that you’ll be trying means something.” He thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Let me give you something, Yllia. It won’t be as good as actually having my brother backing you, but it will help should you find yourself in a tight situation during your travels.”

He pulled open a drawer in the desk and began to draw items out of it – paper, quill, inkwells; clearly searching for something. One of the items he set on top of the desk in particular caught Yllia’s eye; a silver amulet with Andraste’s flame stamped into the metal. There was nothing particularly _special_ about it, though Yllia did notice the web of thin cracks in its surface, as if the amulet had been shattered once and then put back together, but other than that it was just a simple amulet.

And yet still, for some reason she couldn’t help but notice it.

“Here it is.” Teagan startled her out of her thoughts, and she looked back at him to see him place a wooden block with the Redcliffe seal carved into it. “Take this. Should you run into trouble, this seal with identify you as a compatriot of Redcliffe  - it should get you out of some tight situations. Although…”

“Be discrete with using it, in case someone tries to make Redcliffe out to be traitors as well?” Yllia asked dryly. When he flushed a touch, she smiled and held out her hand to take it. “Thank you, Bann Teagan. I’m sure this will come in handy.”

“It’s the least that I can do,” Teagan said sincerely. “And please… only Teagan. You’re a Grey Warden – you don’t owe any fealty to me.

Yllia’s smile widened as she slipped the seal into her robes. “Would it be possible to get a restock of provisions?” she inquired. “We really do need to get going – I’d like to stay for a bit longer to make sure Connor is all right, but I want to get Jowan away from the templars here as quickly as possible, and it’ll take us a few days to reach the Brecilian Forest. I hate to impose on you more than I already have, but…” She looked ruefully down at her robes.

“It’s not an imposition,” Teagan said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to offer, but I’m certain we can part with _something_. Come on. Let’s see what we can come up with.” He swept the contents of the drawer back inside and rose from the desk, heading for the door with a motion to follow.

She did, though she paused for a moment in the doorway and looked back. The amulet had gone back into the drawer again, but she still couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something important about it. Whatever it was, though, it didn’t come to her. Oh, well…it was probably just her paranoid imagination at work again anyway. After all, what use would _she_ have with an amulet dedicated to Andraste?

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

“Are you certain we cannot stay a bit longer?” Leliana asked, unable to hide her disappointment as she helped Yllia check over the travel packs. They’d managed to secure a few days’ extra food, which would serve well for the days when hunting was lean and scarce, and Ser Perth had managed to find them an extra bedroll for Jowan, though no spare tent. Yllia herself had traded in the oversized robes for some light mail, which was a bit more restrictive than she was used to but not too bad – more leather than metal, and she could still use her staff well enough. The cast off robes she’d immediately given to Jowan; he needed a change of clothing more than she did, and they fit him far better than they had her.

“As much as I’d like another day in a real bed,” Yllia said, glancing around the courtyard at her gathered companions, “I don’t want to lose another day. Finding the Dalish is going to be challenging enough; dealing with them will be another matter entirely.”

“You speak as though you have some knowledge of them,” Leliana said, giving her a sidelong glance.

“Well,” Yllia murmured, “I _am_ an elf.” But her focus was already elsewhere. Everyone had gathered in the courtyard – Morrigan stood off to the side, her nose in her mother’s grimoire. Sten was towards the gate, decked out in full armor with a greatsword strapped to his back, looking imposing and intimidating even in what Yllia had determined to be his causal stance. Rhys lay at her feet, and a few feet away Jowan stood awkwardly near Wynne, though the two of them weren’t even looking at each other. When they had begun gathering earlier, Wynne had drawn Yllia aside and quietly informed her that she and Irving had spoken at length concerning Jowan, and although she didn’t say as much Yllia had gathered that Irving had asked Wynne to keep an eye on Jowan during the travels. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that – Jowan being a Grey Warden recruit now and no longer under the Circle’s jurisdiction – but she wasn’t going to make waves in Redcliffe. She didn’t want to give the templars _any_ reason to try to interfere, and Cormac was still standing off to the side with a heavy scowl on his face. The templars were waiting for Connor to wake up and be well enough for traveling before returning to Kinloch Hold.

And then there was Alistair. He, like Sten, was also in full armor, though he was lacking the helmet. He was standing with Teagan and Ser Perth, talking to them both in quiet tones. Yllia smiled softly as she looked at him, her eyes sparkling with relief. After seeing to the provisions she’d tracked him down, prepared to apologize and try to come to an understanding with him over Jowan – and to her surprise he’d started with his own apologies before she’d even been able to say a word. Clearing the air between them had lifted a great weight off of her, and though she knew he was still apprehensive about Jowan, she also knew that he was willing to trust her judgment. And that, as far as she was concerned, was worth more than any apology.

She hadn’t given him the runestone yet, due to them being interrupted by a rather perturbed-looking Rhys who had apparently been displeased that she hadn’t come to find him immediately after leaving Teagan, and then it had been a flurry of activity with tracking everyone down and preparing for departure. She hadn’t had a chance to speak with Jowan, either – she hoped to do both when they were able to set up camp that night, hopefully after covering a decent stretch of ground.

Now Alistair was turning towards them, and she started to smile – then paused when she noticed the grim look on his face. “What is it?” she asked, looking at him as he approached. “Alsitair? What’s wrong?”

Leliana took one look at Alistair’s expression, and took a step to the side. “Perhaps I should leave you two to talk,” she said. “I can finish checking the supplies.”

“No – wait, Leliana. Stay.” Alsitair shook his head. “You should hear this too.”

His tone made Leliana still, and she looked at him with no small amount of concern.

“A couple more Redcliffe guards returned – remember, they were out searching for Andraste’s ashes at her request?” Yllia nodded, and Alistair reached up and pushed his hand through his hair. “They brought news from the south. The darkspawn…they’ve moved further north. There are reports of them all over the Southlands, and a group of them are heading eastwards towards Gwaren. And…” He paused, looking helpless as he struggled to find a way to deliver news that he didn’t want to give. “Yllia, Leliana, I’m sorry. Lothering…Lothering is no more.”


	22. Sanguis Magicam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve lost enough friends in too short a time. I wasn’t about to let you be added to that list.” - Yllia Surana

“Let’s stop here for the night.”

Yllia stopped walking and turned to look at the others, and was greeted with a mixture of relief and agreement as she did so. Not a one of them was opposed to ceasing their trek and setting up camp for a night, and Yllia felt a twinge of guilt when she saw that even _Sten_ was voicing no protest. She knew the fast, relentless pace they’d kept since leaving Redcliffe had been because of her. And she knew _they_ knew why, but thankfully not a one of them had tried to talk to her about it while they traveled. Not even Alistair.

The next moments were filled with the sound of equipment and packs being dropped to the ground, the rustling of the tents being unfurled and set up, the scraping sounds of Leliana preparing the campfire – it was her turn. Most of the sounds were right around her; some distance away she could hear similar ones as Morrigan prepared her own separate camp.

“Yllia…?”

The voice was right next to her; Yllia jumped, startled, and turned to see Jowan standing next to her, looking more than a little uncertain and lost. The puppy-dog expression on his face made it hard to believe that he was actually the elder of the two of them, and there was that twinge of guilt again; he’d trailed behind her most of the day, not saying a word and trying to keep up despite clearly being out of his element. Being on the run from the templars didn’t necessarily equip someone for the kind of traveling that they had been doing, particularly if the one leading the way had the benefit of Grey Warden stamina.

Jowan had his pack and bedroll tucked into his arms. “I was just wondering what I should be doing with these,” he said softly, glancing down as he spoke. The action made Yllia’s heart ache – Jowan had always been shier than most, but he’d never avoided eye contact as much as he was doing now.

Yllia dropped her own pack to the ground. “Put it down and help me put the tent up,” she said with a smile, unhooking said tent from the rest of the bundle she’d been forced to carry. The muscles of her back and shoulders sang with relief once the heavy load was gone; was it too farfetched to daydream about being able to procure a mule or a pack horse at some point on this journey?

Although it was apparent that Jowan had no experience putting up tents – which made Yllia cringe to think about what kind of shelter he might have had or not had during his escape – he was nothing if not eager, and they had their tent set up and staked in near record time. They worked in silent tandem; she and Jowan had always made a good team, and years of being able to anticipate each other’s actions weren’t something that a few mere months and some blood magic could cast aside. He, being the taller of the two, supported the frame while Yllia, being the more nimble, got the stakes settled into place efficiently.

“Not bad,” Alistair commented from behind them when the tent was secure and not in danger of being knocked over by anything but the harshest wind. Both mages started, unaware that their teamwork had been watched, and Jowan flushed and averted his eyes when he saw the larger warrior. Yllia flashed her fellow Warden a grin.

“Thanks,” she said. “Any trouble with yours?”

“Unless you count your mabari staking a claim on it once it was set up, no,” Alistair said wryly, nodding over towards where he’d set up his tent, which currently had the rear end of said dog sticking under the tent flap. “You know, for a dog that’s supposed to be bred to handle Ferelden weather, he’s starting to get spoiled.”

“I couldn’t very well let him sleep out in the rain when we ran into those few showers on the way to Redcliffe,” Yllia said defensively, earning a broader grin from Alistair and, to her surprise, a soft chuckle from Jowan’s direction. She scowled at him. “Don’t you start in on me, too.”

He gave her an innocent smile, which she knew was not as innocent as he pretended it to be, and she raised an eyebrow in response. “Watch it,” she threatened. “Remember who you’re sharing a tent with – and I’m _just_ as good with cold spells as I am with fire.”

“I’m fairly certain that is _not_ what all those lessons in self-control were intended for,” Wynne said in amusement from a bit away. She’d set up her tent fairly close to Jowan and Yllia’s, Yllia noticed, and she tried not to bristle too much at it. She was sure that Irving had given Wynne orders to keep an eye on Jowan – for although Yllia was a Grey Warden now, Wynne’s ties were still to the Circle, and until Jowan officially went through a Joining he was still an apostate blood mage. She hoped Wynne didn’t intend on keeping _too_ close of an eye on Jowan, though, because there were still a lot of questions that Yllia herself had to ask her friend.

She brushed her hair back from her face, scowling slightly. It was longer now, and even with her normal banded locks it was beginning to have a tendency to end up in her face when she least desired it to. _I’m going to have to either find a way to cut it without cutting myself, or figure out a new style_ , she thought with a mental grumble. Since a pair of shears wasn’t among their supplies, and she didn’t dare go at it with a dagger, it was starting to look like the latter was winning out. “I’ll see what I can do about bribing him out of there before you’re ready to sleep,” she promised Alistair, returning to the topic of Rhys. “Feel up to keeping an eye on things here while Jowan and I go get some wood for the fire?”

Alistair hesitated, glancing between the two of them and looking very much like he did _not_ want to do that, and Yllia gave him a silent, pleading look. She _needed_ to talk to Jowan, and she needed Alistair to trust her – if not him – enough to let her do it alone. She let out a breath of relief when she saw him relent, first in his eyes and then in his posture. “Go on,” he said. “We’ll take care of the rest of everything.”

She gave him a brilliant smile and then turned, catching Jowan’s arm at the elbow. “Come on, Jowan,” she said. “Let’s get some fire wood.” A startled look came over Jowan at the abruptness, but he didn’t argue – he was used to her grabbing him and dragging him off to whatever her next thing was. Their departure didn’t go unnoticed by Wynne, but before the older woman could say or do anything she was instantly intercepted by Leliana, who was holding two different sized pans in her hands and oh-so-innocently asking Wynne for her opinion over which would be the better to use for the ingredients they had for that evening’s meal.

When they were deeper in the trees and out of sight of the camp, Yllia slowed her pace and released Jowan. “Sorry,” she quickly apologized when he brought his hand up and rubbed at his wrist. “I didn’t mean to grab you so tightly. Good thing I wasn’t wearing those gloves Leliana tried to give me, isn’t it?” Since finger movements were essential to spell casting, Yllia had chosen to forgo the gloves that had gone along with the light leather armor she’d obtained from Teagan. She didn’t care if that meant she had to use her bare hands to hold her staff – she’d been doing _that_ all of her life.

“It’s all right,” Jowan said softly, his head bowed. “You didn’t actually grab it that hard, just…” He faltered, his voice trailing off. He turned his head slightly, the long strands of his hair concealing his eyes. Yllia wasn’t used to Jowan having such long hair – he’d always kept it on the shaggy side, but not enough so that it could hide his face.

Her eyes flickered to his wrist and the ginger way that he was still holding it. “May I?” she asked softly, reaching out and gently catching his arm just below his wrist. He tensed and hesitated, then turned his head slightly back towards her and nodded.

She drew his arm towards her and pushed up his sleeve, drawing in a sharp breath when she did so. A ring of heavy bruising and scraped flesh encircled his wrist, an inch thick in diameter. The scrapes no longer bled, scabbed over now, but the bruises had been deep – they were only just now beginning to shift to the green and yellow healing stage on the edges, the center of the bruise still dark.

“Oh, Jowan,” she said softly. “This… did this happen at Redcliffe?”

Jowan swallowed audibly and then nodded. “When the Arlessa first had me thrown in the dungeon,” he said softly, “they had me chained up so that I couldn’t use my magic. Even after they started to feed me the magebane they kept me in the manacles, so that I couldn’t defend myself when they were trying to get the antidote out of me.” His voice grew choked. “They…they didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know the antidote. And then, when the undead started coming…”

He stopped and took a deep breath to compose himself. “The magebane still hasn’t worn off enough for me to use my magic,” he said softly. “I haven’t been able to heal myself yet.” His cheeks reddened. “Not that I was ever that good at it anyway…”

“Here.” Yllia reached into her side pack and withdrew a small health poultice and a bandage. With nimble fingers she spread he poultice over his wrists and then wrapped them with the clean cloth, tying each one off securely. “This should help with the scrapes and the swelling. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

Jowan winced as she tended to the injuries, but relaxed once she was finished. “It’s more than enough,” he said, giving her a shy smile. “Thank you.”

“Any time. These should have been treated as soon as they took the shackles off.” Yllia shook her head in disgust. “And at the very least before we left Redcliffe. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Jowan’s cheeks flushed. “It was enough that I was able to get food and a bath, and they weren’t hurting _that_ much anyway. I just…”

“DIdn’t want to cause any trouble?” Yllia finished. She shook her head. “That’s just like you, Jowan. You’ve always chosen to least troublesome path – always trying to stay under the radar, never trying to stand out in one way or another.”

“Except for my lack of magical talent and being the oldest apprentice in Circle history,” Jowan muttered caustically, then yelped when Yllia suddenly punched him hard on the shoulder.

“Knock it off!” Yllia snapped, her eyes flashing angrily. “I didn’t let you put yourself down like that back at the tower, and I’m not about to let you start doing it now – _especially_ now! We don’t have _time_ for self-pity and moping, Jowan, not when the darkspawn are moving north _as we speak_.”

At the mention of the darkspawn Jowan paled, looking first highly shaken and then decidedly ashamed. His blue-gray eyes looked pained. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “This… everything is really screwed up now, isn’t it?”

Yllia felt her anger drain out of her as quickly as it had risen up. She sighed, then brought her hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes. “Pretty much,” she said softly. “ _Why_ , Jowan? Why did you do it? And why didn’t you _tell_ me? Why let me find out like _that?_ ”

Jowan bit his lip, then sighed and stepped away from her. He walked over to a fallen tree, sitting on the moss-covered bark and resting his arms on his legs. “I never meant to hurt anyone by it,” he said quietly. “I  just… nothing else was _working_. Everyone I knew had something special they could do, some kind of talent that came to them naturally – and not just naturally, but _unique._ Most magi only excel in one school – you were good in Elemental _and_ Primal. And Anders – he wasn’t just a Creation prodigy, he was a _Spirit Healer_. Next to the two of you I just felt weaker and weaker.” He looked downcast.

Yllia wrapped her arms around herself, looking at the man who had been her best friend – practically her brother – for most of her life. “You were…jealous of us?” she asked softly.

“No!” Jowan looked up and shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, that wasn’t it at all! I mean, Anders would give me a hard time about it every time I ran into another snag in class, but he did that to _everyone_. And you never once rubbed it in my face – when I had trouble with something that was easy for everyone else, you did whatever you could do to help me. If it weren’t for you I probably would have been even _further_ behind. And that was okay with me. It was okay with me that I was behind everyone else, so long as we were still together.”

He clasped his hands together tightly, shoulders tensing as he hunched forward slightly. “Then everything started changing. All of the apprentices who came to the Circle with us had their Harrowings. I’m not a fool; I knew it was only a matter of time before you were called, and I knew _I_ was nowhere near ready for it. I began to panic, because being Harrowed meant you’d be a full Mage. It meant you’d leave the apprentice quarters and go up to the next level of the Tower, and I’d be left alone.

“I knew the only way for me to be able to go through my own Harrowing would be if I were able to get stronger and start proving that I could handle it, but I didn’t want to take time away from _your_ studies anymore than I already had. You were taking extra classes around that time, so while you were occupied with those, I was able to explore the library alone without you knowing.”

Yllia remembered the period that he was talking about. Six months before finally being approved for her Harrowing, Yllia had requested to take a number of extra classes and tutelage in as many schools and theories as the Circle would allow her to take. None of the apprentices were permitted to know what the Harrowing actually entailed, so it was impossible to prepare for exactly what they would face. Most apprentices never bothered to do so, believing that the Templars wouldn’t put them through the Harrowing if they didn’t already have the skills needed to survive. Yllia’s view of the Templars was not so altruistic, and so she had decided that if she couldn’t know precisely what to prepare for, she would simply prepare for it all.

In the end she’d been thankful for it. There was nothing like facing down a Pride demon and coming out unscathed to make you re-evaluate the importance of studying.

She remembered also that it was during this period of time that she had begun to feel a strain in her friendship with Jowan. Used to his constant presence in her life, his absence during her rare free moments had not gone as unnoticed as he seemed to believe, and yet she hadn’t pursued it – she’d simply assumed it was because of her own busy schedule. It hadn’t been until after her Harrowing that they’d been able to have their first real conversation in what had felt like months…and it had led to events that had changed the course of her life forever.

She felt a stab of guilt then. That single conversation – she hadn’t even noticed the change in Jowan then. He’d never been good at hiding anything from her, and yet she’d never suspected his secret. Had they really drifted apart _so_ much that she’d lost her ability to read him? The blood magic, his relationship with the Chantry sister Lily, the threat of Tranquility and his uncharacteristic desire for escape… none of that had been the Jowan she had known.

“So while I was taking extra classes, you were…studying in the library?” Yllia asked. “You could have just asked to take the same lessons I was taking, Jowan. Enchanter Thekla wouldn’t have minded, and neither would I.”

Jowan shook his head slowly. “I didn’t think supplemental lessons would have helped me,” he said. “I always had trouble with regular classes. I wanted…I wanted to find something _different_. Something new, or maybe a different approach to something that I hadn’t been able to get before. All of those books there, and there just…just had to be _something_.

“I couldn’t find anything, though. I looked through book after book after book, but I couldn’t find _anything_. I was almost ready to give up – and that’s when I found _it_.”

The way he said the word made Yllia look at him more intently, watching his expression. It had shifted a little, growing more focused, more intent as he spoke. Even more than that, the tentative tone of his voice had become stronger, confident even.

“That night in the library I’d fallen asleep while reading out in one of the corners, and the Templar on guard duty there must not have noticed me when he did his sweep through before locking up,” Jowan continued, and though his voice didn’t grow in volume that confidence continued to gather. “When I woke up the lights were down and there was no one there. I was about to leave through the second entrance – you know, the one that Anders told us how to use?” Yllia nodded and he went on, “But before I did, it occurred to me that there was one part of the library that I hadn’t checked yet. That I _couldn’t_ have checked, because I wasn’t a Harrowed mage.”

Yllia drew in a sharp breath, her eyes glittering suddenly with anticipation. “The Restricted Section?” she asked breathlessly. “But it’s kept locked at all times – you need permission from the First Enchanter _and_ the Knight-Commander in order to get access to it!” And apprentices were _never_ granted permission to access the tomes and scrolls located within that room.

Jowan nodded. “It’s only a physical lock, though,” he said, “not a spell. And, well…” His cheeks reddened slightly, “I wasn’t _entirely_ ignoring some of Anders’ escape tales. Remember the story about how he got trapped in that root cellar?”

Yllia’s lips twitched in amusement, and she nodded. “I remember.” And she remembered the modified opening spell that Anders’ had devised on the spot to get out of the mess, which he had told the two of them in hushed whispers. She’d listened with rapt attention; Jowan had feigned indifference as he often did when Anders started talking about his escape attempts. 

But apparently he hadn’t been as indifferent as he’d pretended. “You cast _that_ spell?” she asked, unable to help but feel impressed – and it just went to show that Jowan wasn’t as bad off as he, and their instructors, all seemed to think he was. Anders had only described the spell; he hadn’t even shown it to them, but Jowan had managed to pick up enough to cast it himself. Anders _had_ been particularly detailed, she recalled, and Jowan had always had a knack for details.

  Jowan’s cheeks reddened. “I had to try a few times before I got it to work,” he admitted. “Anyways, once I got the door opened I went inside to look around.”

“What did they have in there?” Yllia asked, intrigued. “Ancient scrolls? Original editions? Lost magical secrets? Was it dark and musty? Were there cobwebs?”

“Actually…it was pretty disappointing,” Jowan admitted. “It _was_ dark, because the lights were out, but there wasn’t a bit of dust anywhere. I think it’s cleaned regularly. Most of the books just seemed to be more advanced versions of the ones they give us as apprentices.” He hesitated, and then dropped his voice softly. “Not all of them, though.”

Yllia gently touched his arm, a silent urging to continue.

“I almost went right past it,” Jowan said softly. “It was tucked away on one of the shelves in the corner, where it looked like they kept the oldest of the books. I don’t know why it was there. It was the last thing I’d ever expected to find in the _Circle library_ , but there it was – a book on the theory and application of _sangius magicum._ ”

Yllia couldn’t suppress her shudder. “Blood magic,” she whispered.

Jowan nodded. “It was written right there on the spine, in Arcanum – at first I just picked it up because I couldn't believe it was actually what it said it was. And then I started reading it and…Yllia, I’ve _never_ had a school of magic come easily to me, you _know_ that. I can’t cast even a simple healing spell, and it took us _days_ before I could manage to control a simple ice spell. I can’t follow the theory at all – the only reason I figured out Anders’ unlocking variation was because he wouldn’t stop _talking_ about it, but if I try to original version I just end up blowing things up instead of opening them.

“But the information that was in that book…Yllia, I _understood_ it. From page one and on to every other page after that I read, it all _clicked_. It all made sense, every last bit of it, from the point of theory straight through to the purpose of application... I understood…” His breath caught, hitching, and he closed his eyes. “And it _terrified_ me.”

“Jowan,” Yllia whispered, her heart aching at the pain and fear in his voice, that unexpected confidence that had arisen in him suddenly faltering. Impulsively she reached over and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. He brought his hand up to grip on of her arms, and she could feel the slight tremors that were running through his body.

After several moments of silence she drew back, her expression intent. “It’s obvious that this is hard for you to talk about,” she said softly, “but I have to ask. You’re saying that you learned about blood magic from this book, but…” She faltered, then gestured helplessly, apologetically. “You know what they teach us, Jowan. That blood magic is born through a bond between mage and demon.”

Jowan instantly shrank back from her, paling as he protested, “I didn’t! I’ve never even _met_ a demon, the closest I’ve ever come was the one that came to Connor in Redcliffe and I never actually _saw_ it! I swear, Yllia – I did _not_ make a pact with a demon!”

“But back at the Tower –“

Jowan suddenly leaped to his feet, taking several steps away from her and then turning back, anxious and earnest and pleading. “Hear me out,” he begged, holding up his hands in placation. “After reading the book, I suspect that what we’ve been told in the Tower is actually a very _biased_ view of blood magic. The Circle – and the Chantry – claim that blood magic comes from demons, but I don’t think it’s actually as black and white as that – if it was there’s no way I could have learned how to do it just from reading a book.

“I think what actually happens is that when a demon approaches a mage, it offers to _teach_ them blood magic – but only if they’ll make a pact or an exchange with them. But if a mage already knows the theory and the basics, there’s actually no reason for them to need the demon at all. Just like with any other school of magic, if you understand the fundamentals…”

“…then you understand the spells,” Yllia finished slowly, repeating something Enchanter Thekla had told them repeatedly during his classes. Slowly she absorbed what Jowan was saying, her stomach twisting uncomfortably as she did so. “But the Circle has always taught blood magic as being evil. Look at the maleficar, at the sacrifices they perform…” 

Jowan twisted his hands together anxiously. “I learned a lot of things from that book, Yllia,” he said softly, “and one thing that was painfully clear to me was how _powerful_ blood magic is. And it’s powerful because unlike the other schools of magic, which depend upon lyrium for their power sources, blood magic gets its strength from blood itself. _Any_ blood, whether it’s the mage’s or someone else’s.” He fixed his gaze on hers. “Think about it, Yllia.”

She did. She saw the answer as plain as day, and the realization floored her so thoroughly it almost stole her breath away.

It was all about control. Alistair had told her as much during their first meeting in Ostagar, when he’d revealed his past training as a templar and had spoken candidly about the lyrium addiction that so many of the templars found themselves under. Although the lyrium itself was mined and processed by the dwarves, it was the Chantry who controlled the surface world’s primary supply of it. Templars and Circle mages alike were allotted a certain stipend, and if more was needed for a particular task (such as the spell they’d performed at Redcliffe), permission had to be requested to obtain it. In this way the Chantry could not only secure the loyalty of its templars, but it could also control the volume and type of magic used by the Circles.

Blood magic was a threat to that control. Set aside of obvious and grotesque misuses of the magic that the maleficar were infamous for, and it was obvious that there could very well be another reason for its condemnation. A mage that could use blood in substitution of lyrium would have an endless supply of power at their ends – well, a _long_ term supply, at any rate.  Put in that light, it was no _wonder_ that the Chantry only had the Circle teach that blood magic came from pacts with demons – the more they vilified it, the less likely mages were to seek it out. And for those that did, well, they were simply the embodiment of the truth that magic was a curse cast down by the Maker.

Never mind that many of them turned to demon pacts out of fear and desperation _because_ of the Chantry’s persecution.

Her vision blurred; she reached up and swiped her hand across her eyes. “Do they know?” she asked, looking at Jowan. “Do they know that you learned blood magic from this book?”

Jowan sighed. “I told the First Enchanter, and Enchanter Wynne,” he said. “I don’t know if either of them believed me. I know that the First Enchanter told Wynne to keep an eye on me while we travel – I suspect they both think you were too hasty in conscripting me.” He hesitated, and then gave Yllia a hesitant, shy look. “Yllia, are you… I mean, well…”

“Am I sure I did the right thing?” Yllia finished, and Jowan nodded, biting his lower lip and casting his gaze downwards again. She got up and went to him, placing both hands on his arms. “Of course I am. I wasn’t thinking about you being a blood mage, Jowan, or that you’d been coerced into poisoning the Arl. I was only thinking about saving my best friend.” Her eyes darkened with pain and sadness. “I’ve lost enough friends in too short a time,” she added softly. “I wasn’t about to let you be added to that list.”

Jowan wrapped his arms around her then, pulling her close and letting rest her head against his chest. She closed her eyes tightly and did so, her fingers digging into his arms. It was a struggle to keep her tears back, and in the end she failed; with her face hidden against the fabric of his robes, she let them fall. From the desperate way he held her she was sure he was crying himself – relief, pain, sadness, all of it coming out between the two of them.

It struck her then – really, truly, without a single doubt – that there was nothing left of her old life anymore. It wasn’t just the Joining and the Blight that separated her from it. The Circle Tower was all but gone now; it would be years before they were able to recover from what the maleficar and the demons had done to the place, and although Greagoir had agreed to not initiate a Right of Annulment there was no guarantee that the mages weren’t still in danger from higher authorities than the Knight-Commander. At the very least, all she could hope for was that they’d be left alone until the Blight was dealt with. Irving and Greagoir had both promised them aid with what they could, but neither Yllia nor Alistair knew how much they’d be able to count on that support.  

She’d left Kinloch Hold with Duncan, never intending to look back or even return. She knew now, though, that deep down inside a part of her – the part that feared freedom just as much as the rest of her yearned for it – had held onto the knowledge that if things went wrong, she would have a place to return to. Not even finding out what the Joining and becoming a Grey Warden meant had managed to get her to let go of that now.

Since the first day she’d been brought to Kinloch Hold there had only been two people in her life that she could have truly called _friends_. She’d already failed one of them; she would not, _could not_ fail Jowan too. She would do _whatever_ she had to do in order to hold onto him. The earlier question of whether or not she was prepared to make him go through the Joining echoed through her mind, but she pushed it aside. She’d deal with that if and when it became an issue as well.

The sound of barking from the direction of the camp broke the silence of the forest then, and Yllia let out a laugh, releasing Jowan and stepped back while giving her eyes one last swipe. “That’s Rhys,” she said, already familiar enough with her mabari’s bark to recognize it just from sound. “And he doesn’t sound too happy. We better get that wood and head back.” She looked at him softly. “There’s a lot we still have to talk about, I think – things I have to tell you, things I still want to know – but we can do that later. Right now, I’m just glad to have you here.”

The smile he gave her then was genuine and warm. “I’m glad to _be_ here,” he said emphatically. “No matter what happens next.”

The ominous implication behind his words wasn’t lost on either of them – but for now, Yllia was determined not to dwell on it. Come morning they would set out once more for the Brecilian Forest, and the Dalish. Right now she just wanted to focus on this moment, to grasp the good points while she could – her best friend at her side, her argument with Alistair passed.

She would grasp the good moments now, because she was all too afraid that they would soon be gone.


	23. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Never forget, il mio. This is the price of treachery."

Her entire body ached, throbbing with a dull pain that reminded her all too much of the time she'd decided to prove that she'd tried swinging from the hayloft and had lost her grip on the rope. Fortunately her father had been on hand to soothe the bruises and aches, but the dull throbbing had stayed with her still for a good two days.

Bethany opened her eyes slowly and found herself staring up at the inside of a thatched roof that looked as if it could use a good repair, lying on a bed that appeared to have been made as comfortable as possible despite the fact that it was little more than a person-sized plank of wood held off the ground by stone blocks, a mattress pad beneath it so flat it might as well be non-existent. She recognized Garrett's cloak draped over her like a blanket, and…was that Carver's  _shirt_  bundled up and tucked under her head? She craned her neck slightly to get a better look – yes, that was the blasted ripped seam on the sleeve that she'd repaired more times than she cared to count. He hadn't been wearing it when they'd left Lothering; it must have been in his pack.

She drew in a sharp breath.

_Lothering._

Panic seized her as the memories came flooding back at once, adrenaline instantly clearing her head. She remembered Garrett sounding the alarm, the hysteria as people fled their homes with belongings strapped to their backs and whatever weapons they could find in hand. She remembered Ser Byron shouting out orders to the few templars and militiamen who still remained in Lothering, and she remembered grabbing her mother's arm and pulling her after Garrett and Carver, Loch on their heels, as the five of them ran.

She remembered the darkspawn pursuit, launching spell after spell without a care for who might see her, only thinking about her family. Meeting Aveline and her templar husband. Garrett's attempts at reassurance. Being cornered by the darkspawn.

The ogre.

She'd heard some say before that a person could die so quickly of injuries that they wouldn't have felt any pain, wouldn't have had any time to know what was happening them. Bethany, on the other hand, remembered every second of that moment when the ogre had thrown her aside, its tight grip and her subsequent landing forceful enough to shatter bone. She had known, in that brief moment when time stood still, that she was going to die. She even remembered her last thought just before she hit the ground – a prayer that her brothers and mother would escape, even if she didn't.

_How am I still alive?_

Her hand tightened around something metallic and smooth – in her panic she'd reached up to her throat, but instead of gripping the collar of her dress as she usually did she'd instead grasped onto a silver pendant that was hanging around her neck. Opening her hand, she recognized it instantly – it was the medallion that one of the Grey Wardens had given Garrett before they'd left Lothering. She'd asked about it when he'd returned to the house after seeing them off.

Bethany ran her thumb over the smooth surface, and surprised to find that the metal wasn't cold, as to be expected, but instead gently warm.  _Magic_ , she realized. There was magic emanating from the item, and unless she was mistaken it was healing magic. Was this small piece what had made the difference between her life and her death?  _Well, I'm not going to find out by lying on a piece of wood all day,_  she thought wryly.

Her muscles protested as she sat up and drew back Garrett's cloak, and she had to move slowly to keep herself from feeling dizzy as she swung her legs over the side to rest her feet on the floor. Her clothing had been changed, she noted; she was clad in a workman's shirt and a pair of trousers, both loose and no doubt all that they could manage to find.

Once she was sitting up and sure she wasn't going to pass out at a moment's notice, she glanced around and took stock of where she was. It looked like a single room apartment designed for little more than sleeping and eating. An identical board-and-pad bed was pressed against the opposite wall, and from the way the dust and dirt had been shifted out around the floor it appeared that several others had been making use of the floor for sleeping as well. The entire place was in need of a good cleaning.

There was also absolutely no place for someone to tuck themselves away unseen, which meant that it was easy for her to deduce that she was alone. Her throat tightened. Where was her mother? Her brothers? Even Loch would have been a welcome sight, but the mabari was nowhere to be seen. Nonsensical fear crept its way into her mind – they wouldn't have left her behind. Would they?

She had just noticed the familiar packs still piled against the wall when the door swung open, flooding the room with sudden light. "You get the packs," Garrett said, one hand on the door handle, his body angled towards whoever was behind him. "I'll get Bethany."

"Be careful with her," Carver's voice came from out of sight. "We don't want to make anything worse than it already is."

"I'm well aware of that, Carver," Garrett said dryly, shaking his head. He turned to go into the room – and stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening as he found himself staring at the sight of his sister, sitting upright in bed and staring at him, her blue eyes shimmering with tears.

" _Bethany!_ " Garrett let go of the door, rushing towards her. Bethany barely had time to blink before he was on his knees before her and pulling her into a tight hug, and she didn't care that she was still sore and aching; she was hugging him just as hard.

Then the hug with Garrett ended and she was being caught up in another pair of arms, and she clung to her twin with a laugh of pure, unadulterated relief."Don't ever put me through that again, little sister," Carver whispered against her hair. She tightened her grip, pressing her face into his shoulder. She was go glad to see him in one piece, she didn't even chide him for the 'little sister' comment or point out that he was ten minutes older.

Finally Carver let her go, and she had to hold up her hand when it looked like Garrett planned on giving her another hug. "Please," she said with a smile of relief. "Give me a few moments to breathe. Honestly, I don't think either of you know your own strengths."

Carver had the grace to look sheepish, and Garrett just flat out grinned. "Can you blame us?" Garrett asked. "We weren't sure if –  _when_  – you would wake up." His smile dimmed, shifting into that look of brotherly over protectiveness that she was so familiar with. "How long have you been awake? How do you feel?"

"I woke up shortly before the two of you came in," Bethany replied. "As for how I feel, well, sore and a little dizzy, but I think I can walk if I have to. Where are we? Where's Mother?"

"We're in Gwaren, or what's left of it," Carver replied with a scowl. "The darkspawn have been steadily sweeping closer, and most of the residents have evacuated. Like  _we_  need to be doing."

Garrett nodded. "Mother's down at the docks with Aveline and Loch," he said. "We've booked passage on a merchant ship heading to Kirkwall. They're ready to set sail now; we were on our way to collect you and the last of our supplies."

Bethany looked at her brother. "What about Ser Wesley?" she asked softly. The glaring omission of the templar's name was not lost on her. A templar though he may have been, and therefore an enemy to the apostates that she and Garrett were, he'd still been fleeing from the darkspawn just as they were. That sort of thing bound people together in ways nothing else could.

Carver and Garrett glanced at each other, and she saw her answer in their eyes even before Garrett spoke again. "He didn't make it," he said quietly. "Blight sickness. There was nothing anyone could do." He hesitated, then added in a low voice, "It was Aveline who did it, in the end."

Bethany's hand went up to her mouth, and her heart went out to the other woman in an instant. "Is she…all right?"

"No," Carver said bluntly. "Who would be, after that?"

" _Carver._ "Garrett shot him a warning look, to which he earned a scowl in return, then shook his head and turned back to Bethany. "Mother's offered to let Aveline come to Kirkwall with us, although I don't know if she plans on staying there. For now, though, we'll be traveling together. You said you were able to walk?"

Bethany nodded, and with her brothers hovering over her like the hawks they were so aptly named for, she got herself to her feet as steadily as she could do, waving both of them off when they tried to give her support. She could walk unaided, if she was careful, and the sooner she got herself back to normal the better. She would  _not_  be a burden to her family.

It was only after they had collected the last of their supplies and were making their way towards the Gwaren docks, with Carver walking alongside his sister and Garrett a few paces ahead of them, that another question occurred to Bethany. She reached out and snagged her twin's sleeve. "Carver," she said in a low voice, "just how did we manage to get all the way to Gwaren?"

Carver looked at her, his blue eyes dark. He started to speak, then seemed to think better of it and hesitated, darting a quick glance at Garrett's back. "...Later," he said quietly. "Let's…just focus on getting out of this place first, all right?"

Bethany bit her lip. She hated when her brothers kept secrets from her, kept her out of the loop, made her feel left out just because she was a girl – the only girl – and the youngest – a terrible combination. Another time, another question, and she might have pressed until she got what she was looking for. The look in Carver's eyes held her tongue. Whatever had happened – and she knew something  _must_  have because she knew geography well enough to know that where they'd been when she'd been knocked unconscious was so far removed from Gwaren that a miracle would have had to occur for them to not only escape the darkspawn but carry her injured body the distance – whatever had happened would have to be a story to be told later.

The cloying stench of death and decay was heavy in the air, despite Gwaren itself having not been breached.

"Later," she repeated firmly, meeting Carver's eyes and holding him to his promise. "But right now, I want to leave this place."

Carver nodded, and understood, and Bethany quickened her pace alongside him as much as she could so that they could catch up to Garrett's waiting silhouette ahead.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

One hour later and the  _Destrier_  was setting sail, lines cast off and anchor pulled, the merchant ship carving a slow yet steady path out of the Gwaren harbor. The docks were near empty; only one ship still remained in the harbor, and it was so heavily damaged from a storm it had encountered before docking that there was no chance of it ever sailing again. All of the other refugee ships had already departed, the  _Destrier_  being the last, and those who remained either intended to brave the trails northward to Denerim or wait it out in hopes that the darkspawn would bypass them. Hawke wasn't sure which the better option was, and he was glad that that was a choice he wouldn't have to make.

It was all too easy for Hawke to picture Gwaren ending up like Lothering – a blackened, tainted husk once the darkspawn got through with it. There were soldiers and templars both stationed in the city, and it was protected by high walls and rough terrain. The fact that there were only two points of accessibility to Gwaren – the northern trails or the sea – gave them a fighting chance… but Hawke had seen the hordes' numbers. Given enough time, and enough determination, they  _would_  break through.

He sighed softly, resting his arms on the ship railing, a soft breeze rippling through the loose strands of hair that had escaped from the tail he'd hastily tied it into before helping with cast-off. Here, on the water, he could smell the salt of the sea, and for a moment he could almost imagine that they weren't fleeing for their lives, that instead they were simply taking a vacation north. Almost…if not for the far distant columns of smoke that rose up from beyond Gwaren, all too apparent signs of devastation and destruction.

He heard soft footfalls come up behind him and stilled, then turned slightly. "Mother," he said in surprise when he saw Leandra standing to his left and slightly back, wearing a cast-off dress that she'd obtained from one of the local women in Gwaren, plain and loose and yet somehow still coming off as elegant on her slender frame. That was Leandra Hawke, through and through; even in the days when they had lived in nothing larger than a one-room gardener's shed, she'd still been lady of the house.

Leandra looked at him and smiled, strained but warm nonetheless, and Hawke felt some of the weight that had been heavy on his shoulders lift then. Since arriving in Gwaren his mother had hardly spoken two sentences to him, most of her focus and concentration spent on Bethany. As it should have been, Hawke knew, but he also knew that it wasn't  _only_  Bethany's care that had put strained distance between them.

"What are you doing up here?" he asked. "I thought you'd be below deck with Bethany and Loch."

"And I thought you'd be helping the captain tend to the ship," Leandra replied, her tone deliberately light.

Hawke grinned sheepishly. "Captain Lawson thought it'd be best if I stayed out of the way until we're out in open sea, since I don't much experience on a ship," he said. "Aveline and Carver at least have  _some_  idea, thanks to their military training. Not that Ferelden's army actually spends any time in the water, but it means that unless we run into trouble they get drafted instead of me. Although I have a feeling that in return I'm going to be the one in charge of meals."

Leandra looked skeptical. "Oh, dear," she said with a shake of her head. "Perhaps  _I_  ought to take the initiative and volunteer myself as a chef for the duration of the trip. No offense, dear, but I've  _tasted_  your cooking."

A laugh escaped before Hawke could stop it, but no sooner was it out that he sobered , his smile fading.

"Garrett?" Leandra touched his arm. "What is it?"

He sighed, then shook his head and looked back at the diminishing shoreline. "Does it make sense to feel guilty, Mother?" he asked quietly. "Guilty that we're  _here_ , on this ship, all of us together – you, me, Beth and Carver, and even Loch. We made it out, we  _survived_  even when we came so close to losing Bethany…but there are so many who didn't. You saw the number of people still in Gwaren. And what about all of those who didn't get out of Lothering in time? And…" He pressed his lips together, unsure of whether to voice the rest of his thoughts.

"The Wardens?" Leandra gently prompted.

Hawke sighed and gave a nod. "It just…it doesn't seem right that they're left to fight the darkspawn themselves, while we're making our way to safety. And with all of the anti-Warden talk that was starting to go around, I've got a feeling allies are one thing they're going to need desperately." He looked down at his hands. "I've got…power, Mother. Power that Father made sure I knew how to use, if I needed to. Is it really  _right_  for me to hide it, when I could find a way to make it useful, to help?"

"You're not…you're not thinking about  _joining_  the Grey Wardens, are you?" Her voice trembled, coloring with fear and apprehension. Her hand curled around his forearm, gripping him with surprising strength.

"What?" Hawke looked at her, startled by her expression. "No.  _No_ , that's not what I'm saying at all." He pushed the loose hair out of his eyes and behind his ear. He hadn't expected that response; the anxiety in her eyes when he brought up the Grey Wardens. It was common knowledge that mage Wardens weren't under the purview of the Chantry, but it was just as known that once you became a Warden that was what you  _were_ , and there was no going back. It wasn't a life that Hawke had ever considered for himself.

He took Leandra's hand and squeezed it in gentle reassurance. "That's not what I meant," he promised. "I just wish that there was more I could do. I mean…Ferelden is our  _home_."

Some of the distress vanished from his mother's eyes, though not enough to fool Hawke into thinking he'd assuaged her fears. Her voice was steady, however, when she spoke. "Home is more than just a place, Garrett, more than a house, village, or country. Home is the people around us; the people who help shape our lives. The important thing is that we are all together, all of us."

Hawke knew she was right, that what mattered wasn't the four walls and a roof they'd left behind but that they were all still together, especially after coming so close to losing Bethany. Whatever other misgivings he had, he could be content with that; he  _had_  to be content with it. "You're right," he said quietly. "We'll make a new life for ourselves in Kirkwall, or find someplace else in the Free Marches. Start over again, just like we've always done."

He must have sounded convincing –  _hopefully_  – because Leandra relaxed fully at his words. She nodded and smiled. "Together," she said firmly.

Then she drew back her hand, releasing her hold on him. "I'm going to go back below deck," she said. "The water looks like it's going to be getting a bit choppy, and I haven't been on a ship in years. I want to check on Bethany and make certain that Loch isn't getting into anything he's not supposed to. Don't fret too much, dear – there's nothing we can do about the past now. All we can do is move forward." She sounded a touch wistful at that, and Hawke knew she wasn't just thinking about Ferelden and Lothering, but also about their father. It had been three years since Malcolm Hawke's passing, and though Leandra did her best to hide it, his loss was still with her.

As she headed back for the steps leading into the ship's interior, Hawke turned back to the railing. The coastline was further away now, still visible yet becoming more and more indistinct. He could still make out the tops of the trees, but could no longer see where land met water, or individual objects lying along the coastline. Soon he wouldn't even be able to see those trees; Ferelden would be nothing more than a thin line on the horizon, and then it would be gone.

He thought of Lothering, of the modest life that his father and mother and built for them there seven years earlier. He thought of distant Ostagar, the day that his brother had announced that he was enlisting in the King's army and the moment that  _he_  had realized that because of his magic, he could not. And he thought of Yllia and Alistair, who had swept in and out of his family's life so swiftly it was almost as if they hadn't been there at all – and yet, Carver and Bethany were proof enough they had. He owed both Grey Wardens a debt for his family, and he could only hope that it was a debt that could one day be repaid.

"'Hey, boy!" Lawson's shout came from behind him, towards the ship's wheel. "Git over 'ere an' stop daydreamin'. We need t' get these sails catchin' th' wind or we'll be  _paddlin'_  the entire way t'Kirkwall!"

"Coming!" Hawke called, stepped back away from the rail. He gave one last wistful look as the vanishing coast, and then turned to hurry and help Carver and Aveline.

_Farewell, Ferelden. And good luck._

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

_Flames crackled in the stonework fireplace, filling the room with warmth and casting shadows on the wall off the darkening room. He stirred from his sleep, shifting on satin sheets as he rolled onto his side, the light bed covers only covering him from waist down, allowing the firelight to play off of tanned skin and dark tattoos that wound their way up his torso._

_Slowly he opened his eyes, a lazy smile working its way across his face as a bare back came into focus beside him, tousled chestnut hair falling around delicately sloped shoulders, the tip of a single ear peeking out from the locks. She was still, wrapped tightly in sleep's embrace – which made it almost a pity to wake her._

_He propped himself up with one arm, hand tucked against the curve of his jaw, and reached out to place his hand on her shoulder. "Can you hear me,_ bello _?" he murmured, slowly running his fingers along her skin, brushing her hair back to bare her neck. "Or must I wake you in another fashion?" He shifted closer, bringing his body up against hers, moving his head to press a soft kiss to the tip of her ear. His hand slid down along her arm to disappear beneath the covers, a motion that had never failed to rouse her, so he had learned in their time together._

_She did not stir._

_Something wet touched his questing fingers; his hand went still._

_Her skin was cold._

"Bello _?" He sat up, quickly drawing his hand out from under the covers, the suddenness of his motion shifting her, causing her to roll onto her back, her hair fanning out beneath her head and shoulders, chestnut strands and golden skin darkened with…_

_Red._

_Red in her hair, where it had dripped and coalesced. Red staining her skin, not an inch of her throat left untouched. Red down her chest, her arms, in their bed, on his hands…_

_And from the midst of the red, a pair of sightless blue eyes, gazing at him with fear, despair, and betrayal._

_A hand clasped his chin, yanked him back, forced his head up; the sharp edge of a blade kissed against his throat. His eyes flew open wide, his breath caught and strangled in surprise._

_A voice, low and taunting, in his ear. "Never forget,_ il mio _. This is the price of treachery."_

He woke with a gasp, his eyes flying open as he stared blindly into the darkness. For a moment he panicked, thinking himself blind, trapped, when he saw nothing but inky black above; then his eyes adjusted to the shadows and he realized that he was inside his tent, the taupe fabric much darker without the light of his lantern flickering within the confines of the fabric.

Zevran sat up, his muscles protesting at the movement. He'd fallen asleep on top of his bedroll, still glad in his leathers, and the kink in his neck and lower back was a persistent reminder of how foolish that had been. That he hadn't  _intended_ to fall asleep was little consolation.

He wanted to tell himself that it had been some outside sound that had roused him from the depths of dreams, but he'd only be lying to himself. The images were too vivid in his mind, and he had to force himself to look down at his hands, to reassure himself that they were not covered in blood.

Gradually he felt his pulse reduce to its normal speed, taking deep breaths to aid it, forcing the tension to ease itself out of his body. Too much emotion, too much stimulus, and the job would be lost even before it had begun. Even now, even as a voice whispered in the back of his mind how  _unlikely_  success was regardless of what plan he initiated, his pride refused to let himself simply  _fail_. Just as it had been his pride that had led him to bidding on this job, a job that not even a Talon would accept. His mentor's words echoed in his mind:  _Patience, discipline, and creativity – the greatest assets an assassin can possess_.

He had never had trouble with the third; the first and second could prove more difficult, though he'd found that the more challenging a job, the more they were able to achieve. He had to focus; he could not afford to be distracted by thoughts or memories. The Crow does not hesitate; it sees what it wants, and it takes it through any means available – even if it means going through another Crow to do so.

Yet no amount of focus seemed able to erase the memory of those sightless, cornflower blue eyes.

" _Basta_ ," he hissed, giving his head a fervent shake. He rose to his knees and reached for the twin dagger sheaths that lay within arms' reach, sliding the straps over his shoulders and belting them into place. Then he swept back the flap of his tent and emerged, bringing up his hand to briefly shield his eyes from the rising sun.

One of the hirelings he'd acquired for the task noticed him out of the corner of his eye and scrambled to his feet, a telling look of guilt on his face that made Zevran suspect that the man had been watching the insides of his eyelids rather than the perimeter of the camp. Another time and Zevran might have berated him for it, but at the moment he couldn't care less. The woodlands were quiet save for the occasional rustling of leaves by the wind or the soft chirping of birds waking for the morning. This was their third day at camp, and even the members of the minor Crow cell that he'd drafted were beginning to grow restless.

Then, the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching, light-footed in the way that only someone trying to be silent could accomplish, and yet with enough amateurish mistakes that Zevran could pick out each individual step from the cracking of twigs or the rustling of fallen leaves.

He turned towards the sound just as one of the scouts he'd sent out to watch the roadways hurried into the clearing, the elf barely winded; there was no forest that an elf could not travel with ease, regardless of if they'd grown up in one or not. At the sight of the scout Zevran felt a faint thrill wind its way up his back, but the sensation was tempered by apprehension. "Well?" he asked impatiently, waiting to hear the words.

"They're making their way to the east," the scout reported. "We'll be set up right in their path. It shouldn't be more than few hours before they reach us."

Excellent. He'd predicted this location specifically because it was at a crossroads, assuming that the Grey Wardens would choose to stay off of the main roads while traveling in order to remain out of sight. Their last confirmed sighting had been in the village of Redcliffe, which meant they were likely to travel either north or east – either way, they would walk directly into the ambush that he had set up. "How many?" he inquired.

"I counted seven," the scout reported. "Four women, two men, and what looks like a kossith warrior. They've got a mabari with them as well." He looked chagrined. "I couldn't tell who the Grey Wardens were."

Zevran waved it off. "No matter," he said. "We will close the ambush around them all. Rouse the others. I wish to get this job finished." As the scout hurried off to do as he requested, Zevran looked into the forest silently. He knew what the whispers were saying behind his back, about his choice of jobs as of late. He knew why Taliesen had tried to persuade him to retract his bid. And he knew, even if he did not want to admit it, why he had not.

_Come_ , he thought, his fingers curling as if already wrapped around his dagger.  _Let us finish this – one way or another._


	24. Much Like a Wild Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No doubt they'd be facing their next challenge soon enough, but no one could begrudge them moments like this, could they? After all, this was what they were fighting for, wasn't it?

Alistair tossed the last of the kindling into the fire, watching the flames crackle as he stoked them back to the proper height and heat needed to cook that morning's breakfast. It had become an unspoken rule among the party that whoever took the final watch of the morning was equally responsible for preparing the morning's meal, and so the task had fallen to Alistair. It wasn't a task he particularly relished; cooking never had been his forte, and he'd discovered long ago that attempting anything other than a stew was the quickest way to disaster and an unappetizing loss of precious ingredients.

Fortunately his companions, despite their diverse backgrounds, were more than willing to accept whatever was put in their bowls so long as it was edible and something that would settle easily during a day's worth of travel. And stew was easy enough to adjust the quantity of when an extra mouth needed to be accounted for.

The first morning chirps of birds were beginning to echo, a welcome sound after too many days traveling through the silence of the Blight-ravaged southlands, where the slightest rustle or sound had you immediately on guard and reaching for your sword. For a moment he simply sat there, listening, enjoying the sense of peace. That there was still such a thing in Ferelden made him all the more determined to find a way to maintain it, to save this country and its people before the Archdemon and its darkspawn could destroy all that was good about it.

The sound of shifting cloth caught his attention, snapping him out of his daydream and drawing his eyes over to Yllia's tent. The girl in question was just emerging, clad only in a thin linen under-robe that cut off just below her knees and was tied shut by a length of linen cord wrapped snugly around her waist. She rubbed at her eyes sleepily, smiling and heading over to him when she caught sight of Alistair.

"Morning," Alsitair said with a nod, trying not to let his eyes linger on the way that the thin material hugged her upper body and hoping that it wasn't light enough yet for her to notice his suddenly burning cheeks. "Did you sleep okay?" She'd still been awake when he'd turned in for the night, having taken the first watch with Jowan.

"Well enough," Yllia replied with a smile, kneeling down next to him. Rhys came over from his usual sleeping spot and plopped himself down at her side, letting his head land in her lap in a none-too-subtle request for an ear scratch, which she gladly obliged with. "I won't be falling asleep on the way to the Brecilian Forest, if that's what you're worried about."

"Thought never crossed my mind," Alistair replied flippantly, and the two of them exchanged another grin. Their eyes met, and suddenly flustered, Alistair turned back to the fire and the stewpot. "I only just started putting breakfast together, so it'll be a bit still before it's ready to eat. Unless you happen to  _like_  cold stew, that is."

"No, thank you."

Even without looking at her Alistair could picture the expression on her face just by her tone of voice, and he chuckled. "That's all right," he replied. "I wouldn't want to eat  _my_  cooking cold, either." That got another laugh from  _her_ , followed by a companionable silence as Alistair filled up the stewpot as much as he dared without risking overflowing.

Once that was done, however, there was nothing else to do but wait for the food to heat up, and the silence became a little more awkward then with neither of them occupied with anything. It occurred to Alistair that this might be their last chance to speak alone for awhile, since they weren't likely to get individual lodging like at Redcliffe to a long time.

"How did it go last night?" Alistair asked, keeping his voice notched down since the tents were by no means soundproofed. "With Jowan, I mean." He nodded towards the tent that Yllia had shared with the other mage – something that he'd been apprehensive about at first, until it had become increasingly clear through the interactions of the two mages that there was nothing even remotely romantic between them. And even if there was, it wasn't any of his business. Any at all. Right.

Yllia bit lightly at her lower lip, drawing one leg up and clasping her arms around her upraised knee. Rhys huffed at the position change of his designated pillow, and she reached down to ruffle at his ears.

"He fell asleep easily enough being as exhausted as he was, but he must have woken up a half dozen times during the night. I'd be surprised if he got even half a night's worth in the end of it, which is why I didn't bother trying to wrestle my robes on before I slipped out – I want to let him sleep as much as possible, now that he finally is."

"Nightmares?" It wasn't his place to pry, but Alistair couldn't stop himself; the look of worry that Yllia wore tugged at his heart.

She nodded. "About what, I don't know… and I wasn't going to push. If he wants to talk about his nightmares to me then I'll listen, but there's no sense in dredging it up if he doesn't want to talk about it. If I had to guess, though, it was probably either about what happened after he escaped from the Tower or while he was held in the Redcliffe dungeon.

"We talked a lot last night but it was mostly about Ostagar, the Grey Wardens, the Blight, our plans – any time we got too close to something he didn't want to talk about he skirted right around the issue." She laughed suddenly, a soft, husky sound that went right through Alistair. "Jowan was never good at lying or trying to hide something, but he's  _really_  good at avoiding issues. Usually I can get him to open up when he starts doing it, but…"

"You'd rather he talks to you about it first?"

"Pretty much." Yllia scratched one of Rhys' ears, earning a soft whuff of contentment from the mabari. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at Wynne's silent tent, then over to him. "We  _did_  talk about how he learned blood magic, though."

Alistair tensed. Decision to trust her judgment or not, years of ingrained templar training could not simply be dropped overnight. She must have picked up on his tension, because no sooner had he done so than he could see her start to close off, hesitation and uncertainty taking root. Inwardly he cursed; hadn't he  _just_  promised himself that he would keep an open mind? He  _wasn't_  a templar, blast it; he was a Grey Warden, and he knew there were blood mages among the Wardens in other parts of Thedas. He willed himself to relax, offering her what he hoped was an apologetic smile. "Habit," he said softly. "I'm working on it. Go on."

His words seemed to put her at ease, but only slightly; she still glanced towards Wynne's tent. "I don't want to get into the details here," she said murmured, "not with a long search for the Dalish still ahead of us, but I promise I'll tell you more later – actually, it would probably be better for you to hear the details from Jowan himself. But I want you to know this, Alistair; Jowan  _didn't_  learn his blood magic from a demon. He didn't make a pact with one, and he's never used any blood but his own." Her large blue eyes looked at him imploringly.

All Alistair could do was stare at her in return, disbelief and skepticism flooding his gaze. "He…what? But that's…that isn't  _possible_." His Templar training had made it very clear; blood mages learned their magic from demons. They were  _possessed_  by demons, demons who were just  _waiting_  beneath the surface of the Fade to slip their way into the mage's mind and take control, turning their newfound vessel into an Abomination. It was  _impossible_  for a maleficar to learn blood magic without consorting with a demon to do so – surely Yllia had learned this in the Circle.

Yllia held up her hands. "I know, I know," she said in hushed tones. "That was my first reaction also, but he was insistent, emphatically so. And Alistair, if you  _knew_  Jowan, knew him the way I know him, you'd know he's never emphatic about  _anything_. If he puts his foot down about something and stands his ground, it's because he really, truly believes it."

Alistair had started to open his mouth; now he closed it, giving her an intent look. "Do  _you_  believe it, Yllia?" he finally asked.

Yllia fingered a loose lock of hair, twisting it around her finger. "I do," she replied. "I remember what it was like being around Connor. I could  _feel_  the demon in him. I mean, granted, that one wasn't exactly trying to hide what she was, but still… I don't feel  _anything_  like that from Jowan. At all." She spread her hands out imploringly in front of her. "I trust my instincts. Can you?"

Alistair sighed softly; when she looked at him with those pleading, blue eyes, he wasn't sure how he was supposed to do anything  _but_  agree. He gave her a boyish, lopsided smile. "I've followed you so far, haven't I?" he asked. "I said I'd give Jowan a chance, and I won't go back on that. I promise."

"Alistair…" Abruptly Yllia leaned forward and threw her arms around his broad shoulders, giving him a tight hug of relief. And just as quickly she pulled back, ducking her head and busying herself with ruffling Rhys' ears once more, though not before he caught a glimpse of her flushed cheeks. Flushed cheeks that he was certain matched his own.

"Oh!" Suddenly Yllia took her hands away from Rhys' ears, which earned her a plaintive whine of protest from the mabari, and scrambled to her feet, hurrying back to her tent. She stuck her upper body inside for a moment, then emerged and came back, a small cloth-wrapped object held in her hand now. She held it out to him. "Here."

Alistair blinked and held out his hand, looking at it curiously when she dropped it into his palm. "What is it?"

She rolled her eyes. "Open it and find out," she said wryly. "That's what you're  _supposed_  to do with a present, isn't it?"

His eyebrows went up, and then he grinned. "Oo, is  _that_  what it is?" he teased. The cloth wasn't heavy or difficult to unfold, though maybe folded a little  _too_  much given the apparent difference between the size of it and what lay within. His surprise showed plainly at the sight of the delicate white stone within, and he carefully caught it up between forefinger and thumb look at it more closely. "You're giving this to… me?" It wasn't  _just_  a stone, he could clearly see the rune carved into it with gold-inlay, but he was surprised at the gift; after all, something like it would have been more suitable for another mage, wouldn't it?

"Most of the workable magic's already gone out of it, so it's not too useful in that regard," Yllia explained as if she'd read his mind. "But even when the magic's gone out of a runestone something of its purpose still lingers, and this one was a rune of protection and strength." She smiled at him, almost shyly. "I…thought it might come in handy for you. Since, you know, you're usually the first one running into a battle and you actually  _want_  the darkspawn to be attacking you. Have I mentioned before that that's a little insane?"

Alistair laughed, eyes bright. He took the runestone back into his palm, running his thumb lightly over the gold etching, and then wrapped it back up in its cloth and tucked it away into the purse tied at his waist. "Thank you," he said with warm sincerity. "I'll make sure not to lose it."

She blushed with pleasure at his thanks, and it suddenly struck him that he had yet to give her the gift  _he_  had been saving for  _her_ , and with the two of them as alone as they were likely to ever get for awhile he couldn't think of a better chance for him to give it to her. He cleared his throat, earning a quizzical look from her.

"I, ah, have something for you as well," he stammered, a touch nervous. He turned to where his pack and reached inside, extracting a slender case that he'd obtained at Redcliffe, originally intended to hold an Orlesian ceremonial dagger, though the weapon in question had long since vanished. Now the case was serving to house a very different item.

"Here, look at this," he said, holding out the case to her. "Do you know what this is?" He could see the curiosity in her eyes as she took it, and then the inquisitive tilt of her head once she'd opened it to see its contents.

"Your…new weapon of choice?" Yllia asked with no little amusement, the corners of her mouth curling upwards as she lifted the rose carefully out of the case to look at it more closely. The early morning light drifted over its petals.

Alistair grinned, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "Yes, that's right," he said with a laugh, feeling his nervousness dissipate at the sight of her smile. "Watch as I thrash our enemies with the power of floral arrangements! Feel my thorns, darkspawn!" He pantomimed picking a flower and stabbing something with it. "I will overpower you with my rosy scent!" He breathed in deeply, then released it and reached up to sheepishly rub the back of his neck. "Or, you know, it could just be a rose. I know, I know – that's pretty dull in comparison."

Yllia's shoulders were shaking in an too-late attempt to contain her laughter. "I don't know," she said teasingly. "Sentiment can be a pretty powerful weapon." She ran the tip of her finger lightly along one silken petal.

"Is it that easy to see right through me?" Alistair could feel his cheeks heating up as he watched the careful way she was holding the rose. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

"I picked it in Lothering," he added when she lifted her gaze from the flower to meet his eyes again, the question clearly on the tip of her tongue. "I remember thinking, how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness? I probably should have left it alone, but…" He shrugged one shoulder. 'I couldn't. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I've had it ever since. Although the case is new. I found it in Redcliffe. With everything I've been shoving in my pack lately, I didn't want it to get crushed."

"So you've…been carrying this around in your pack since Lothering?" Yllia looked back down at the rose. "And you said this was…for me? I mean, I'm assuming you meant the rose, not the case it's in." For a moment she looked wary, as if she thought he might actually take the flower out of her hands.

"I meant the rose," he assured her, his eyes soft as he looked at her. "When I saw the rose, and thought all of that, I realized that in a lot of ways…I think the same about you."

The blush that spread across her cheeks at that moment was without a doubt  _not_  made by the firelight, and Yllia held the rose a little closer to her chest. "Alistair...thank you." An uncharacteristic shyness came over her then, as her eyes met his.

Alistair felt his heartbeat quicken at the look he saw there, and his mouth and throat suddenly felt dry. "I-I'm glad you like it," he stammered, trying to hide his reaction. For a moment they sat there, looking at each other, both with words on their tongues that neither of them knew how to or if they should say, for fear that to do so would be to damage the tenuous balance being re-forged between them after their argument.

A rustle of fabric cut through the silence then, the flap to Leliana's tent flying open as the tall redhead emerged from within, looking far too alert and put together for someone who had just woken up in a tent in the middle of a forest. She gave them both a beaming smile. "Good morning," she said brightly. "Is that breakfast ready, there?"

Yllia and Alistair immediately broke their gaze, a blush springing up onto Alistair's cheeks as he hurried to dish out some of the stew for Leliana, and Yllia cast a suspicious look in the direction of the bright-eyed rogue. Her emergence and overall awake appearance seemed entirely too coincidental for Yllia to not suspect that their conversation had had a pair of extra ears turned towards it. Her eyes met Leliana's, and the redhead gave a picture perfect look of innocence – with just enough impishness for Yllia to know she'd heard every word, at least in regards to the rose.  _Great,_  Yllia thought with a mental groan.  _I give her one day before the teasing begins._

She glanced down at the delicate rose in her hands, then to the blush that still stained Alistair's cheeks as he bantered with Leliana about his less-than-perfect cooking skills, and smiled. She could handle some teasing.

As if Leliana's emergence from her tent had been some kind of signal the rest of the camp began to stir, with Sten and Wynne both coming out of their respective tents to claim a portion of the morning's meal, and Jowan emerging a few moments later, albeit far more tentatively and keeping his distance from everyone but Yllia. Morrigan took care of her own meal in her separate camp, as had become habit, and there was no more time for teasing or embarrassment through the slight chaos of making sure that five people and a dog all got their necessary portions.

It was only once the meal was over that Morrigan – at Yllia's insistence – finally deigned to join them. They were still two days out from reaching the edge of the Brecilien Forest, with little likelihood that they'd come across anything larger than a small village on the way – and if they were lucky, it wouldn't be abandoned yet. The Brecilien Forest was closer to the darkspawn's path than either Yllia or Alistair were comfortable with, the sense of the horde playing just on the edges of their consciousness; its southern reaches, in fact, were far enough south that the chances of the darkspawn already infiltrating it were very real indeed. Sten, in his taciturn way, questioned whether the Dalish would still be in the forest at all and whether or not it was worth the extra time to search for them, to which Morrigan caustically replied that it would take far more than a Blight to tear the Dalish from their forests.

It was Alistair who put an end to the argument by pointing out that with the way the horde was spreading north this might be their only chance at  _finding_  the Dalish, let alone recruiting them as allies, and reminding them that with their total number of  _certain_  allies currently consisting of only the handful of mages and templars who hadn't died during the uprising at the Tower, they couldn't afford to be picky. His sudden assertiveness openly impressed both Wynne and Leliana, and even seemed to placate Sten, but Yllia could tell it hadn't been easy for him. After all, the longer it took them to get to Denerim, the less time they had to find a way to cure Arl Eamon.

Then it was finally time to pack up the camp, and a half hour later found them back on the road in what was becoming their usual formation – Sten and Morrigan at the rear, then Leliana and Wynne, and finally Alistair and Yllia at the lead, with Jowan taking up a fixed position slightly behind and to Yllia's left while Rhys alternated between running off ahead to scout and falling back to trot proudly between the two Grey Wardens. They traveled together in silence at first; then, after the second time Rhys had squeezed himself into place, forcing Alistair to step to the side to avoid tripping on the mabari, Leliana gave an impish comment of how Rhys appeared to think that Yllia needed some kind of bodyguard, to which Alistair promptly retorted, and a companionable banter rose up between the group, primarily between Leliana, Alistair and Yllia, with a few add-ins from Wynne and Morrigan and even Jowan when Yllia managed to draw him into the conversation, though he rarely joined of his own initiative. Even Sten participated, in the manner of long-suffering looks that made it clear he did not understand half of what was being said, or the purpose of it, yet also saw no reason to object to the mindless chatter.

As an unexpected tease from Wynne left Alistair blushing and stammering in defense, Yllia stole a sideways glance at him, and a soft smile touched her lips. Their eyes met and he returned her smile with one of his own. No doubt they'd be facing their next challenge soon enough, but no one could begrudge them moments like this, could they? After all,  _this_  was what they were fighting for, wasn't it?

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Hours later, Alistair struggled to conceal his distaste as he removed his sword from the corpse of a Hurlock. Once free, he held up the weapon and observed the congealing black blood that now adorning the upper portion of the blade. "Ugh," he said in disgust, immediately leaning down to wipe his blade clean on a blood-less patch of grass before sheathing it, not wanting any of the darkspawn's innards to remain clinging to his weapon. The Green Blade was too good a weapon to let be damaged by lack of proper care.

"Everyone all right?" he asked, looking around at the group, noting that physically everyone at least seemed to be intact. They were all standing in a semi-circle of freshly charred corpses, compliments of Yllia, though Jowan had managed to get in a couple of well-aimed – if weaker – fireballs as well. Leliana had managed to find enough of a rise to be able to pick off a few of the stragglers before they'd joined the main melee, shielding Wynne in the process as the Enchanter cast her cures while the rest of them had all opted for a more visceral approach to the fight.

"Well enough," Leliana replied, drawing an arrow out of a Hurlock's corpse and examining it to see if it was still viable. They typically weren't – the taint of the darkspawn blood was corrosive on weapons, as well as ran the risk of carrying contamination with it, yet she checked nonetheless. No self-respecting archer left behind an arrow if it still had a place within their quiver. She made a sound of distaste and looked to Yllia. "I am beginning to run low on arrows, Yllia. I think I had best rely on daggers for now, unless the range is needed."

Yllia looked at her and nodded, though her brows knit slightly – Leliana was good with daggers, but better with the bow, and her range came in handy for picking off stragglers before they could reach the main force in an ambush. "We'll see if we can restock your arrows when we find the Dalish," Yllia replied. "They'll have some for certain."

"True, but whether they will be willing to part with them or not,  _that_  is the question," Morrigan pointed out.

"We'll worry about that when we have to," Yllia replied, though she bit her lip after she spoke. For a moment Alistair thought he detected a trace of sadness in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him questioning whether he'd seen it or not. She brushed her hair out of her eyes, the dark strands having escaped from their ties during the fight, and squared her shoulders. "And speaking of, let's get going. I don't sense any more darkspawn in the vicinity, so this is as good a time to gain some ground as ever."

Alistair nodded slightly in agreement, sliding his sword back into its sheath and stepping up to take the point again. He'd noticed an odd urgency falling over Yllia as they had started on their way that morning, and he wasn't surprised to find her focus returning so swiftly after verifying that their companions were okay. He didn't know what the cause of it was, whether it was just her desire to cover as much distance as possible that day or if she was simply keeping her eye on the goal of recruiting more allies for the inevitable battle, but the early morning camaraderie had given away to intense silence. She'd conversed quietly with Jowan a time or two, but for the most part had remained withdrawn into her own thoughts. Enough so that when the darkspawn had made themselves known, Yllia had reacted to it a hair later than Alistair; nothing anyone else would have noticed, but as a fellow Grey Warden Alistair couldn't have missed it.

The interlude with the darkspawn hadn't changed that, and if anything Yllia seemed even  _more_  focused. So focused that she didn't even seem to notice when the shadows made by the trees shifted sides, or when the sky peeking through the leaves began to shift from shades of blue to violet. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, her strides sure and steady as his were, but a discreet glance around and behind him showed that the others weren't faring as well. Sten and Rhys both seemed find, but Leliana and Wynne were both starting to flag a bit; Morrigan's expression was unreadable. What was most telling was their newest addition – Jowan had been sticking close to the front of the group, trying to match Yllia's pace, and as Alistair's gaze went to him he abruptly stumbled, losing his footing on the leaf-hewn but otherwise obstacle free path.

Alistair's arm went out automatically, catching the mage by the bicep to keep him on his feet. "Easy," he said, keeping a firm hold on Jowan until the other man was able to stand without swaying. "Are you all right?"

Jowan flushed a touch, the deep red color creeping up his neck, easily visible against his otherwise pale skin. "I'm fine," he said, managing a strained smile. "Just a little, um, tired. I'll be fine."

Alistair cast a critical eye at him. He didn't need to look at Wynne to verify that Jowan was near exhaustion; he was the least prepared and least accustomed to this sort of traveling out of all of them, and they'd been pushing a rather strong pace since the morning.

"Yllia." Alistair turned towards Yllia, only to find that she hadn't even broken stride – although the others had stopped when Jowan had stumbled, she had continued ahead as if unaware of what had happened behind her. Evidence enough of her focus, and even more worrisome to Alistair given how hyperaware of Jowan she'd been since they'd left Redcliffe. " _Yllia._ "

She paused, then turned, frowning when she saw that they were all quite a ways back. "What is it?" she asked, backtracking quickly. "Not darkspawn. I don't sense anything."

"How about camp?" Alistair tilted his had back, drawing attention to the darkening sky above. "We've been traveling all day, plus the fight, and there aren't darkspawn in the area. If we're going to make camp, this is a good place to do it."

Yllia cast a look around, a slight frown on her face. "I wanted to get closer before we stopped," she said. "We lost some time with the battle…it's still light out, we have another hour or two before night sets in."

"I think Alistair has the right idea, Yllia," Wynne interjected. "Not all of us are used to pushing so far at such a pace." She met Yllia's light blue gaze; for a moment it seemed as if the younger mage might argue, a flicker of irritation in her eyes; things had been icy at best between her and Wynne since Jowan's conscription, and there didn't seem to be signs of thawing. Alistair, at least, had agreed to give Jowan the benefit of the doubt despite the blood magic. Wynne had been less inclined to do so, and if not for the fact that they needed her healing talents he suspected Yllia would have refused to let her leave with them from Redcliffe.

Then Yllia glanced over at Jowan and the irritation faded, as if she had just noticed Jowan's clear fatigue for the first time. He was making a good attempt at trying to hide it, and failing miserably. Her shoulders slumped slightly and she sighed, then offered him an apologetic smile. "All right," she conceded. "We'll set up camp for the night and resume again in the—"

" _Help! Help me, please, somebody help!"_

The shrill, panicked cry echoed ahead and to the right, drawing the full attention of the party at once. Yllia and Alistair looked at each other for a split second, then took off without preamble.

Morrigan sighed and shook her head. "So much for setting camp," she said, before following with the others.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

It didn't take them long to find the source of the cries – as they came around the bend in the road a blonde woman in a tattered dress was running towards them, panic in her eyes and desperation in her voice. She held the skirt of her dress high enough only to keep from tripping on it, the hem frayed and muddy from being dragged across the ground and caught in brambles. The moment she saw them the last of her strength seemed to go out of her, as if all that had been keeping her moving forward had been her desperation to seek help. She stumbled, falling to her knees before them.

Yllia ran to her, dropping to her knees beside the woman and placing her hands on her shoulders. "Are you all right?" she asked urgently. "What's happened? Where did you come from?"

The woman lifted her head, dirt streaks on her cheeks and forehead, hair framing her face in limp tangles. She brought up a shaking arm, extending it back behind her. "C-caravan," she stammered. "Our caravan…we were fleeing the south… there were bandits…" She broke off, choking back a sob before continuing."I managed to, to run, to find help… please, you have to help us!" She suddenly grasped Yllia's arm in a tight grip. "My husband, my daughter…!"

Yllia drew in a sharp breath, lifting her head to look at her companions. "Let's go," she said. She rose to her feet and helped the woman to her feet. "Lead us there. If your family can still be saved, then we will do so."

The woman's eyes shimmered with tears. "Oh, thank you!" she managed. "Thank you. Quickly – this way!" Without hesitation she released Yllia's arm and spun on her heel, grabbing up her skirt again as she began to dash back the way she'd come. Yllia spared only a brief glance back at her companions before following quickly after her, trusting the others to follow. She felt a knot in her stomach, the woman's words resonating with her – her family had been fleeing the south, fleeing the darkspawn, only the be set upon by bandits. That knot was quickly displaced by anger; anger that the horde continued to drive people from their homes, that there were those depraved enough to prey on others in a time of desperation, that  _another_ family now struggled to find safety and security. She  _could not_  fail to protect, to save, another family.

The road turned sharply, the woman quickly following the path, moving with far more alacrity than Yllia would have expected of someone in her condition. She followed, Rhys at her side as they came around the bend.

The sudden crack of splintering wood echoed in the forest, and Yllia spun on her heels in time to see a large tree suddenly fall across the path behind them, thankfully just barely missing Sten and Morrigan as they brought up the rear. Eyes widening, she twisted back around to stare at the woman who had led them here.

The woman in question hadn't stopped at the falling tree; instead she walked up to a small group of men standing near a caravan wagon that showed no indication of having ever suffered an attack. She looked at one of them, who stood furthest back, and nodded once.

The man had been leaning casually against the wagon; now he drew himself to full height and stepped forward. He was an elf, Yllia saw immediately, shorter of stature than the others around him and yet moving with a fluid grade in his stride that immediately sent warning bells ringing in her head – whoever he was, he was no mere bandit. Clad in fitted leather armor, with long honey-blonde hair and sunkissed skin unmarred saved for a dark intricate tattoo curling down the side of his face, he calmly lifted his hand up and flicked his wrist.

From the bushes, trees, and rocks around them, a score of men and women, fully armed with sword and dagger alike, stepped into view. Yllia's blood ran cold at the sight, their presence confirming what she had already begun to realize. She looked back at the elf, the obvious leader of this ambush, and found herself caught by a pair of amber eyes burning with an intensity that held her fast. For a brief second she thought she saw a hint of surprise and shock flicker through them, followed by a deep sadness that made her heart ache.

Just as quickly the emotions were gone, replaced by a hardened, impenetrable mask. He dropped his arm, reaching behind him to unsheathe two long daggers as he spoke a single command to his men.

"The Grey Warden dies here!"


	25. Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't suppose this is the part where you confess to being utterly charmed by my good looks and roguish wit and announce your intent to release me while your companions are otherwise distracted?" - Zevran Arainai

"The Grey Warden dies here!"

In hindsight, Zevran would admit that his ambush was amateurish at best, and downright foolhardy at worst. Crows did not do ambushes, not unless they were so limited in skill that it would be impossible for them to accomplish their tasks alone - fitting for the ragtag band of novices and dregs that he'd gathered around him. What they lacked in skill they made up for in numbers, however, and he could only hope it would be enough to buy him the time he needed.

He picked out the two Grey Wardens immediately, thanks to the minor intel he'd gathered before setting the trap – the human warrior, with a broadness of shoulder that he'd have been happy to admire in another time and place, and an elven mage who, he couldn't help noticing, was quite fetching to behold. Rendon Howe's words regarding prioritization between the Wardens flitted through his mind, but seeing the way that the two Wardens stood shoulder-to-shoulder, Zevran suspected that he wasn't going to get a choice in who he faced. Well, the arl's personal vendettas were not his concern – he had been hired to eliminate the Grey Wardens, both of them, and he would do just that. Or else die trying.

The mage turned her head slightly towards a man standing behind her, another mage by his robes, and murmured something that Zevran couldn't make out. Her companion gave the slightest of nods and took a step back. Zevran's keen eyes did not miss the curling of his hand at his side as if preparing a spell, though there were none of the telltale sparks that typically preceded a cast. Zevran knew little of magic in practice, but no assassin worked in this world without being able to figure out a mage's tells. They had them, just as a swordsman or an archer did, and it could meant the difference between –

_Movement!_

Zevran's daggers were up, blocking the first strike with a reverberating clang, a strike that came not from the warrior as he had expected, but from the mage Warden herself, the hard wood of her staff making a thudding sound only slightly duller than as if he'd struck true metal. His surprise showed only briefly at the realization that the mage had taken the point, and then there was no time to think, only react.

He adjusted his stance for more leverage and twisted his body, using his momentum to push the staff aside. He kept moving, ducking down and thrusting out his leg in a sweep aimed at her legs.

At the last moment he checked himself, pulling his leg back in and instead going into a side roll to avoid the shield that had been aimed at him. Ah,  _there_  was the warrior, moving perfectly into place during Zevran's momentary distraction as if he and his fellow Warden had planned the maneuver in advance. That alone sent alarm bells off in Zevran's head, because of course they couldn't have – which spoke volumes for how well these two worked together.

It was the warrior now who engaged him in combat when he rolled to his feet, sword and shield moving in tandem not unlike how Zevran handled his own twin blades. Some rogues preferred a combination of short sword and dagger, yet Zevran had never felt comfortable with the imbalance of length; his own blades were identical twins, customized to his exact specifications, allowing him to switch them from hand to hand at whim. He did so now, flipping one into the air as he passed the other to the now free hand, only to snatch the first dagger out of the air in the same moment he ducked to avoid another strike of the warrior's sword. The new grip flipped the weapons backward, the dull edges kissing the length of his forearms, the sharpened blades exposed and glinting in the sunlight.

Everything but the immediate slipped away. His fellow Crows, the Wardens' companions, they became nothing more than white noise, moving shapes in the background of his focus. He didn't forget about them, per se, but they grew inconsequential. All that  _mattered_  was the man who stood before him. His opponent.  _His target_.

Zevran lunged, striking out with arms and legs both, his daggers an extension of his body. He moved like lightning, each slash and strike focused, intent on making its target. The Grey Warden met his attacks with equal skill, sidestepping, blocking and parrying each one, preventing Zevran's blade from finding any purchase in flesh. The warrior moved with unexpected grace and a fluidity of motion atypical to the heavy armor he wore, meeting Zevran stroke for stroke – and yet he never made a move to take himself off the defensive.

In the back of Zevran's mind a voice that sounded not unlike his former master whispered to him to be cautious, that a single opponent who remained defensive had reason to, and Zevran in turn ignored the warning. He pushed forward, finding advantages in their difference in height, difference in weight, in what movement their armor could allow. Zevran should have had the advantage in all of these points, and yet the Grey Warden warrior continued to match him. More than that he was showing no signs of tiring, whereas Zevran's was beginning to feel that initial burn in his muscles that preceded fatigue.

_Pull back and conserve._  His master's voice again, and he steeled himself against the words. He didn't want to pull back. He didn't want to conserve his energy. For the first time since  _then_ , against this warrior, this Grey Warden, he could feel his blood begin to sing with the intoxicating rush of adrenaline. He had to keep moving. Forward. No stopping. No looking back.

Strike, strike, step, twist, duck, strike. An intricate dance of footwork, the brilliant flashes of sharpened steel as his daggers whirled with his body. He aimed for the warrior's vulnerable points and was met with deterrence each time. When was the last time he had found himself so evenly matched by an opponent? He could not remember; perhaps he never had been. Certainly there were those in the Crows with skills superior to his own, but they were comrades, not threats. Not unless one of them stepped out of line, and then it was never  _he_  who was called upon to handle their elimination.

He pushed, he struck, he danced, and still the warrior remained steady, focused and undeterred. Now the battles around them had faded even from the background – were they over? And if so, had his people come out on top, or had the Wardens' companions? Judging by the way his opponent's defense never faltered, Zevran made a sparing conclusion that it was not the Crows that had come out the victors this day.

As he ducked to the side in an attempt to get a strike past the warrior's shield, dagger aimed at a break between armor pieces, he glanced up at the man's face. Whether out of arrogance or skill the Grey Warden had neglected to wear a helmet, leaving his eyes uncovered and easy to read.

It was a fleeting reaction, the way those hazel eyes shifted to the side, briefly fixing on a point beyond Zevran's shoulder. A moment's hesitation that, had he not looked up at that precise moment, the rogue would have missed completely.

He reacted instantly, taking advantage of the warrior's distraction to drop and roll, ducking underneath his opponent's arm, his own shield preventing him from striking at Zevran with his sword. The weight of his armor likewise slowed down his attempt to turn, allowing Zevran the chance to bring himself up on his knees and sweep his daggers in a forward arc aimed at the gap between cuisse and greave.

The ground shifted beneath his feet, throwing his balance off and causing his daggers to strike against the warrior's armor as his body pitched to the side. He wasn't the only one affected by it; his opponent staggered forward but recovered swiftly, as if he were used to such tremors occurring during battle. Which made no sense, unless…

_The mage!_

He used the momentum of his fall to roll and twist, turning to face the Grey Warden mage that he had all but forgotten during his one-on-one combat with her warrior counterpart. He brought his daggers up again, pulling back his arm to throw –

And froze, finding both the tip of the iron blade at the base of the staff pressed to the hollow of his throat, and the blade of a sword kissing the side. A long honed sense of self-preservation halted him in a flash, not even a muscle twitching in response. It would only take the slightest bit of additional pressure for his life's blood to spill, and the steadiness with which both staff and sword were held against his skin told him neither Warden would hesitate to take such an action if necessary.

That they hadn't finished him off yet told him they didn't intend to – unless he pushed them to it. The final twitch need not be theirs; the slightest perception of continued threat, and it would all end. It would all  _finally_  end. The pain of memories, the ache in his chest, the sleepless nights…over. Done. His grip tightened on his dagger.

"Don't."

That single, soft-spoken word carried an edge to it as sharp as Zevran's own blade, not unlike the quiet tones that his Master had used during his training. So similar was it that Zevran found himself doing as the voice commanded, while at the same time lifting his gaze to meet that of the woman who had spoken.

He stilled again, and this time it wasn't because of the blades against his throat.

He'd thought her lovely at the start of the battle, as he'd assessed her and her companions. Up close he realized his original assessment did her no justice. For starters, she was smaller than he'd estimated – elves by nature weren't tall, but he guessed that side by side she'd still only reach his shoulder at the most. Her ears tapered into delicate points just visible through her thick brown hair that framed a slender jaw, high cheekbones and full lips, and he thought he could make out just the barest hints of an incomplete  _vallaslin_  tattoo against her ivory skin.

What caught his attention the most, however, was neither her size nor her delicate beauty. It was her eyes – eyes of a glacial blue that darkened to a sapphire shade around the black center, eyes that met his in an unrelenting gaze, sending a surge of heat through his body in that single instant and rendering his throat dry. It wasn't possible. It made no sense, either, that another pair of such eyes could exist in this world  _or_  that he would happen upon them at this, his lowest point. A name threatened to spill from his lips, logic barely catching it, and he could only kneel before her in dumbfounded silence.

His grip on his weapons loosened, the daggers sliding out of his hands to fall to the earthen ground with twin dull thuds. He made no effort to retrieve them, instead closing his eyes and bowing his head in clear submission, not flinching as the movement caused the staff to scratch against his skin, just hard enough to raise a welt.

They remained that way for a moment longer, frozen in a macabre tableau as the question of Zevran's fate hung heavy in the air. He felt the pressure of the staff and the sword diminish as both weapons pulled back.

Something hard struck him across the temple, and all was dark.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

A low groan rose up from his throat, brought on by the dull ache that started from somewhere at the base of his skull and worked its way to the center of his forehead. It throbbed, the sheer act of trying to open his eyes sending fresh pain lancing through his head.  _That is the last time I allow Isabella to talk me into having a late-night Antivan brandy in the midst of a storm while at sea…_

Except there had been no brandy, his clouded mind recalled with sudden clarity, and he hadn't been on a boat for days now. Despite the dizzying sensation that made it seem as if he were rocking with the sway of the open water, the ground that he lay on was coarse, damp dirt, long strands of grass scratching at the points where his armor exposed his skin. And the ache in his head, he realized, wasn't the result of alcoholic overindulgence, but of a heavy shield striking him hard against his temple. If he reached up to touch, he suspected he'd find broken skin or an unpleasant bump.

Not that he could actually make the attempt. As his senses grew more aware, less hindered by the throbbing in his skull, he noticed other things about his predicament. Important things. Such as the fact that his legs were bound together by well-tied rope at both the ankles and knees, and his arms were secured behind him, hands pressed back to back to prevent him from using his fingers to loosen the knots or squeeze out of the bindings.  _Whoever did this binding is someone who knows what they are doing,_  he thought with a hint of approval and gallows amusement.

A groan escaped from deep in his throat as he forced his eyes to open fully – and found himself face-to-face with the bared teeth, snarling visage of an angry mabari. He recognized the dog immediately, but that didn't diminish the jolt of fear that rippled down along his spine. He wasn't afraid to admit to fear. Fear, or so he'd always believed, could be a powerful motivator under the right circumstances. The trick was to not let it dictate your actions.

"Hello there," he said by way of greeting, offering the mabari his most winning smile and trying not to think too hard about the fact that any one of those teeth could be used to rip a hole in his throat should the dog feel so inclined. "I do not suppose you have a skin of water that could be spared? Or perhaps a bowl of stew? Even boiled roots would do."

One heard stories by the dozen outside of Ferelden regarding the supposed intelligence of mabari, and Zevran felt as if this one was the perfect representative – only a creature of great intellect would have stopped growling and given him such a thoroughly disgusted look following such a pathetic attempt at conversation. The mabari snorted and turned away from the elf, clearly deciding that it had concerns other than intimidation. It padded over to the closed tent flap and dropped down to the ground with a thud, lowering its head to its paws and watching him with liquid brown eyes.

Zevran sighed. "I shall take that as a no." He lay there for a moment in contemplation, then took in a deep breath and – with a certain amount of effort given the way he was currently bound – threw the entirety of his weight behind him so that he could roll himself onto his back. He hissed slightly at the pressure that settled on his hands before he could shift his weight again, but managed to get himself if not comfortable, at least to a point where he could turn his head both left and right and take stock of his situation.

He'd half expected to wake up – if he woke up at all – on a pile of a dirt, perhaps mud, being gazed upon by several pairs of glaring eyes. Reality was quite different. Instead of being left out in the open for any variety of Ferelden insect to pester while his captors waited for him to regain consciousness, he had been sequestered away in a moderately well-maintained tent. It wasn't particularly  _large_ , he noted, but there was room enough for a bedroll and a mabari, and tucked in the corner of the tent he could see a supply bag filled to overflowing with various items. No weapons in sight, which indicated that whoever the tent usually belonged to, they weren't  _stupid_. Only a fool would believe that leaving weapons within reach of a tied-up assassin was safe.

Then again, he probably wouldn't have been able to get his hands around the hilt of a blade, much less get his bindings undone, before the mabari was upon him. The large brute of a dog  _was_  a good deterrent.

A low rumbling growl escaped the mabari's mouth.

"You are not going to have me believe that you can tell what I am thinking," Zevran informed it. The mabari responded with another growl, and did not remove itself from its sentry position in front of the only exit.

Zevran sighed and let his head fall back against the ground.  _An excellent predicament you've found yourself in, Zevran,_  he admonished himself.  _Surround yourself with the greenest Crow cell that you can find, challenge the only two survivors of the massacre of Ostagar singlehandedly, and somehow_ still _manage to emerge from the battle with your head firmly attached to your shoulders._ He hadn't planned for this. He hadn't planned at all. He'd gone into that fight expecting only one of two outcomes – that he would either win, and they die…or he would lose, and he die. Either would have been acceptable to the Crows, though one clearly more preferable than the other. It was a hassle, sending a replacement when the first assassin failed to fulfill a contract.

Instead here he was, tied up and at the mercy of his captors. There was only one reason why they would have chosen to take him alive – they wanted something from him. Information, most likely. He'd made it quite clear that the ambush had been no random attack, which meant  _they_  knew someone had hired him to do the job. They would either want him to tell them, or confirm their suspicions.

The question that he needed to answer before then was, where did his loyalties lie and how much did he owe to those they lay with? There was Loghain Mac Tir and Rendon Howe, the holders of his contract. By Crow law, an assassin's contract dictated his loyalties until the moment the terms were completed. The odds of him actually being  _able_  to complete the contract at this point potentially negated that particular code. The Crows were nothing if not pragmatic – although they prided themselves on taking whatever steps were necessary to see their contracts to fruition, they did not expect their assassins to fall on their swords in futility. A good assassin was a valuable asset and investment, after all. If he returned to Antiva and declared the contract impossible to complete, then the Crow masters would either re-assign it – unlikely, given their hesitance in accepting it in the first place – or declare it void.

That would negate his loyalty via contract, leaving only his loyalty to the Crows to consider. Whether a contract was completed or voided, the Crows believed heavily in  _integrity_  – one could not stick their hands in as many political pots as the Masters did and not have to maintain some aspect of confidentiality. The Crows dealt with all transgressions internally, and among the great taboos was the outside discussion of  _any_  contract details. He  _could_  vague up enough details to get him out of the situation, but the question of  _then what?_  loomed like a dark, ugly shadow over his head.

Would he return to the Crows? The failure of the contract would be a stigma that would remain with him, a dark spot on his reputation – and it was by reputation than an Antivan Crow built his safety net, his protection against the more aggressive members of his cell. Although one could not advance in the Crows without a certain amount of political savvy, Zevran had never considered himself to be particularly ambitious. Unfortunately, his personal lack of ambition wouldn't matter for those who saw him as a stepping stone to further their own advancement. He hadn't given enough thought to the potential consequences of taking the contract. Really, he hadn't given  _any_ thought at all.

Which led him to his third option – loyalty to  _himself._

The mabari abruptly lifted his head, ears pricking forward as he looked at the closed tent flap. Muscles bunching, the dog surged to its feet, its stub of tail working at a rapid-fire pace that made it look more like nothing more than a blur. Zevran had never witnessed such a decisive look of joy on an animal's face before and he could deduce that it meant only one thing – the mabari's master was approaching the tent.

_Mistress_ , Zevran immediately amended as the tent flap whipped back and a familiar petite figure stepped into view.

It was the elven mage from the battle whom the mabari immediately planted himself beside, shoving his head beneath her hand in a none-too-subtle insistence for praise. She obliged by moving her hand to scratch behind his upright ears, but her eyes sought out and focused on the restrained elf currently flopped on the floor of her tent.

One dark eyebrow arched at the silent notice that her prisoner had managed to adjust his position while remaining tied, but she didn't comment on it otherwise – after all, he  _was_  still restrained, and hadn't actually managed to move from the spot, just to roll onto his back. From behind loose strands of honey-blond hair Zevran gave her his best disarming smile, to which she responded by giving her mabari's ear another scratch and drawing her hand back. "Rhys," she said calmly, "go sit."

Rhys gave another rapid-fire wag of his tail, then padded over to where Zevran lay and promptly dropped himself down on his haunches directly next to Zevran's head. "Beautiful  _and_  cruel," Zevran quipped, fighting not to show any visible reaction to the scent of a dog that had clearly seen more days wandering through the wilderness than baths. Rhys looked down at him and growled.

"Is he finally awake?" another voice – Zevran recognized the other Grey Warden, the warrior – came from behind the mage. "Because if I have to listen to another one of Morrigan's rants about how much time we're wasting by making camp here, I think my head just might end up exploding."

"Given some of the spells that we have seen her perform, that is not unlikely to happen should you continue to antagonize her," another female voice, this one bearing an Orlesian accent, chided. This one Zevran couldn't put to a face, not until the tent flap moved again and both speakers stepped inside, flanking the mage on opposite sides. The other woman proved to be the red-haired rogue from the battle.

" _Me_ , antagonize  _her?_ " The warrior looked at her in mock indignation. "Whatever makes you think I've been doing  _that?_ "

"Really?" The mage, who had affected a look of exasperated amusement at the exchange, now turned to give her fellow Warden a pointed look. "You aren't actually going to say that with a straight face, are you?"

The warrior looked at her and reached up to rub the back of his neck with a sheepish smile and a shrug, and she let out a sigh and shook her head. When she turned back to face Zevran, however, he caught her fighting to hide a smile that she was clearly not attempting to let her companion see. For a brief moment her calm, focused demeanor slipped into something more carefree, the barest shimmer of warmth filling those glacial eyes – and the instant she noticed just how attentively Zevran was watching her, the smile vanished and her hauntingly familiar eyes grew cold.

_Blue_ , he decided then, was an unfair label. Before unconsciousness had wrapped its dark arms around his mind, he'd had only enough time to register the shock at the sight of them. Now he had a chance to truly look, to separate out the trick of his subconscious from the definitive reality. They were not the same, these eyes that looked at him now. Similar, yes, but while the blue of his memory was more along the lines of an aquamarine gemstone, the Warden's eyes leaned forwards a paler shade of glacial blue-white. And this was  _particularly_  true now, as they gazed upon him with clear distrust and open disdain. Apparently during their brief acquaintance, he had failed to make a favorable impression.

Well, he  _had_  attempted to kill both her and her companions. He supposed he couldn't blame her for that.

For a moment the two of them simply stared at one another, she flanked on either side by the lovely redhead on one side and the warrior that he had fought on the other – an even more delightful specimen of the type now that he could observe him without reservation – while he remained in the dirt, sprawled on his back with his hands and feet trussed, his hair out of its usual braids and falling in tangles around his shoulders. He'd need a good bath as soon as he could manage one; providing, of course, that he survived this encounter.

Well, he wasn't dead  _yet_. He just wish he could decide if that was a good thing or not.

"Well," he finally said, the dragging silence threatening to push him over the edge if it continued for any longer, "this is interesting. I rather thought I'd wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet."

He purposefully affected a light tone, and it took his captor off his guard. Was that –  _yes!_  The barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, gone as quickly as it had appeared but existing nonetheless. "That could be easily rectified," she evenly replied. Perhaps  _too_  much so, the sign of someone trying to remain stern while fighting back amusement. "You're awfully glib for a prisoner."

He could not resist a chuckle at that – nor did he miss the slight twitch of the warrior's eye. Baiting one's captors was usually not the best idea, but something told him that in  _this_  one's case, it had the potential to be quite entertaining.

"It is my way, or so I am told," he replied, maintain to same casual tone as if he were not, in fact, bound hand and foot inside a dark tent. "Let's see, then – I assume you kept me alive to ask me some questions, yes? If so, let me save you time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran; Zev, to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens – which I have failed at." He paused for a brief moment, then added, "Sadly."

The female Warden crossed her arms over her chest, nonplussed. "I have to admit, I'm rather happy you failed."

"So would I be, in your shoes," Zevran acknowledged with a slight nod. "For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's budding assassin career."

"Too bad for you, then."

Zevran gave his best mournful sigh, adding just a touch of downcast eyes for effect. "Yes, it's true. Too bad for me."

"What are the Antivan Crows?" This question came from the other Grey Warden, the warrior, and there was no mistaking his irritation; clearly he did not approve of banter during interrogation.  _Oho…someone believes he has a territory in need of defending_ , the impish thought stealing into Zevran's mind as he noted the way the man glanced sideways at the elf beside him. If  _she_  noticed, she gave no indication; her focus appeared to be entirely on Zevran himself.

"I can tell you that," spoke the redhead. She was watching Zevran now, her expression curious as she regarded him. Their eyes met, and at once Zevran's instincts flared to warning. This woman might  _appear_  to be nonthreatening, even with the bow strapped across her back and in the light armor she wore, but there was something about her that instantly put the assassin on alert. This, as much as the two Grey Wardens, was one to watch out for. He would need to tread carefully in her presence. Words were as much his specialty as blades, but he had a sense that in this woman he may have met his match.

"They are a band of assassins out of Antiva," the redhead continued. "Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done… so to speak." She narrowed her eyes at Zevran, then looked at the elven girl. "Someone went to  _great_  expense to hire this man."

"Quite right," Zevran agreed. "I'm surprised you haven't heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I come from, we're rather infamous." He intentionally kept his tone light, but still saw the warrior's hackles rise.  _Much too easy…_

"Not for being good assassins, I see."

Her counter, spoken in complete calm, caught Zevran completely by surprise. Only when he actually redirected his gaze back to her did he see, to both his astonishment and delight, the glimmer of mischief in her eyes and the slight near-imperceptive tilt of her lips that bordered on impishness. Unwilling to miss an opportunity, he scoffed, "Oh,  _fine._ Is that what you Fereldans do? Mock your prisoners? Such  _cruelty_."

"Yllia." The warrior was outright frowning now, his irritation shifting into straight displeasure. Whatever tactic they must have decided to take with his interrogation, trading remarks with the assassin was likely not to have been on the list. She turned to look at him, lifting one eyebrow silently, and for a moment they merely looked at each other.  _They know each other well enough to not need words between them_ , Zevran mused unsurprised. He'd suspected as much when they'd been fighting, how they seemed to be able to anticipate each other's actions with confidence. It was the mark of a true partnership to be able to read the movements of your partner in an improvised battle, to move as if each could read the other's mind. Such partnerships were rare indeed; few were ever fortunate to be part of one.

To  _lose_  such a partnership… it could be the most painful of losses.

A pang in Zevran's chest quickly had him abandoning that line of thought, as the lady Warden –  _Yllia, such a unique name_  – sighed and broke eye contact with her companion, her expression shifting to serious as she turned to face her prisoner once more. The time for idle banter had passed, it seemed; the time for interrogation had begun.

"Who hired you to kill us?" Yllia asked, crossing her arms over her chest and looking down at him expectantly.

Here it was, then; the decisive moment, so to speak. Zevran had given no thought to what would happen if he had failed in his mission, despite its low odds for success, simply because he had not expected to fail  _and survive._  That the Wardens had taken him alive was… not  _surprising_ , given that anyone who had a contract on their head would likely want to know who had placed it there, but it was nevertheless unexpected. He was skilled, oh yes, strong and fast and agile – but he had met his match in facing the two of them. No… that was being generous. Had they wanted to, they could have killed him. Easily. His only true advantage had been his element of surprise. An advantage now long gone.

There was, of course, always a chance that once they were finished questioning him they'd end his life anyway. In such a case the logical course of action would be to hold true to his contract, keep his mouth shut, and let them do with him as they would. They would never force anything out of him that he did not want them to know, of that he had complete confidence. The Crows understood that their assassins were mortal, and mortals could make mistakes – such as finding themselves prisoner to their target. They were trained to prepare for such instances; a Crow who talked and claimed it was under duress was either a liar or weak-willed, and the Crows had no use for either.

There was also the small, simple fact that, now that he had survived his initial attempt at death by Warden, he…no longer wanted to die. He could not explain what had wrought that change in him, when every step he had taken since that fateful day in Antiva City had been leading him to this end, but he knew within his heart that it was true. Upon opening his eyes after expecting them to be closed for good, it felt as if he had, somehow, been granted a new lease on life. A second chance, as it were. And with that second chance came a sudden, striking new clarity – that it was not  _Zevran's_  death that would bring atonement.

He could not die. Not here, and not now. He had unfinished business.

Yllia, she of the glacial eyes, was still silently waiting for his answer.

Time to roll the dice, then, and see which way his luck fell next.

"A rather taciturn fellow in the capital," Zevran replied smoothly, as if he hadn't just held an internal debate within himself. "Loghain, I think his name was. Yes…that's it."

The warrior narrowed his eyes, an impressive growl emerging from his throat. Other different circumstances, Zevran might have been tempted to draw that growl out in other ways. Particularly if he could guarantee that the look in those hazel eyes accompanied it. "Loghain," the man spat with the clear distaste of hatred. "Not that I'm surprised. At all."

"We knew he'd put a bounty out for us," Yllia reminded him. "The odds were pretty stacked in his favor."

"I know, I know…but there's a difference between just putting out a bounty for any passing bandit to try for and actually hiring an  _assassin_ ," her companion said with a sigh. "Though maybe I'm the only one who thinks so…" He scowled slightly, then looked at Zevran himself. "So. Does that mean you're loyal to Loghain?"

Zevran shrugged one shoulder. "I hardly spoke with the man himself, and can truthfully say that I have no idea what his issues are with you. Most of my contact came through an associate of his, one Rendon Howe I believe his name was. Now, I must confess to a bit of curiosity regarding what you did to get on  _his_  bad side." He turned his amber gaze on the warrior, tilted his head slightly, and recalled a small piece of information that he had tucked way for potential use but otherwise discarded. "Particularly you."

Neither Warden could hide their surprise; it seemed that the idea that one of them might be prized above the other when the bounty simply called for the heads of the 'Grey Wardens' had never occurred to them. Zevran's second set of orders had apparently been for his ears alone – not that he had put much stock in those orders to begin with. His contract had been with Loghain Mac Tir, not Rendon Howe – the weasel-man had simply been his contact. Still, that didn't mean that the information wouldn't prove to be valuable in  _some_  fashion – particularly if that value led to Zevran procuring a guarantee that his head would remain attached to his shoulders.

"Me? What do you mean, particularly  _me?_  Why would you want me?" the warrior asked, his expression a mix of wary suspicion and slight panic. "More to the point – why does  _Loghain_  want me? Dead, I mean? Aside from the obvious."

His flustered state was endearing; it took much of Zevran's willpower to refrain from commenting on it. "As far as I know – and I do not profess to know the minds of taciturn noblemen – he does not. You were mentioned to me by a man named Rendon Howe. Though my contract was to eliminate the both of you, he was  _quite_  clear in his insistence that  _you_  were to be my priority, if such a choice needed to be made. Though perhaps he might have changed his mind had he been aware of your lovely companion's magical prowess." He flashed Yllia a smile he  _knew_  to be charming, and was quite amused when she pointedly  _refused_  to avert her gaze.

She soon turned to her companion, however, her expression troubled. "Alistair, who's Rendon Howe?"

"He's an Arl, like Arl Eamon," Alistair – the name suited him, Zevran decided – replied. "I remember seeing him once when he came to Redcliffe. I wasn't terribly impressed – he was on the scrawny side and had a face that resembled a rat. I've never met him  _personally_ , though; whenever someone noble came to visit, I got shuttled off to either the kennels or the stables with the instruction to keep myself occupied." His tone was matter-of-fact, punctuated by a slight shrug of his shoulders, but Zevran didn't fail to miss the way that Yllia's lips tightened at his offhand delivery of the words.

Alistair continued on as if he hadn't noticed. "If I'm remembering correctly, he's the…Arl of Amaranthine? I think it's located somewhere north of Denerim." He flushed slightly. "I've…never been up that way. I've just seen maps."

"North and east, to be more precise," Zevran volunteered.

"He's not an Arl any longer," the redhead spoke up then; she had fallen silent, settling into a role of observation rather than participation. Her words drew their attention once more. "I happened to overhear a few things during our stay in Redcliffe. It seems that Arl Rendon has now been granted the rank of  _Teyrn._  The rumors have it that he exposed the former Teyrn of Highever as an Orlesian spy, and was granted the teyrnir as his reward."

Alistair looked at Leliana, stricken. " _What?_ " he asked. "But…that's…there no way…!"

Yllia crossed her arms over her chest. "Hello," she said. "Circle mage for sixteen years, complete novice when it comes to Ferelden politics. Care to fill me in?"

Though he masked it well, Zevran was equally interested in the answer. One could not have a place within the Antivan Crows and not dip their fingers into the politics of the country, but he knew only the most rudimentary basics of Ferelden politics. Between the Crows and the merchant princes Antivan politics could be as complex as the Game of Orlais; he doubted Ferelden, a country more rustic than regal and only scant decades out of occupation, were even a fourth as intricate. It intrigued him greatly how one of the Ferelden nobles could have been an Orlesian spy and no one had been the wiser.

Alistair was visibly agitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, opening and closing his fists. "Ferelden has two teyrns – Teyrn Loghain in the south at Gwaren and Teyrn Bryce in the north at Highever. I'd…I've always heard good things about Teyrn Bryce. The Couslands have  _always_  been loyal to the Crown, even when Orlais occupied Ferelden. I  _can't_  imagine him being a spy…" He looked lost, as if a part of his world had just had a giant hole smashed into it. Yllia placed her hand lightly on his wrist.

"Was Highever among the forces at Ostagar?" Leliana inquired, looking between her two companions. "I understand that soldiers were called from all across Ferelden – Templars, as well. Lothering was left nearly defenseless from it."

Alistair frowned. "Actually…" His brow furrowed in thought. "Wait. I remember Duncan talking about this. Highever's forces  _did_  show up, or most of them, but they were being led by Teyrn Bryce's eldest son Fergus. He'd brought a message saying that his father and the remainder of their forces were due to arrive later, with…" He trailed off, suddenly stricken.

"With?" Leliana tilted her head to one side.

Alistair swallowed hard; he looked ill. "The forces from Amaranthine," he finished. "They never made it to the battle. Just like Redcliffe."

The words hung heavy in the air between them, though Zevran himself could only guess why. He'd heard bits and pieces of some dire situation within the Arling of Redcliffe and rumors of an occurrence at the Ferelden Circle of Magi, but he'd paid little attention to them other than to note that the two Wardens had been spotted there as well. It was how he had deduced where to stage his ambush. Whatever  _had_  occurred there, though, clearly continued to weigh upon all of their minds.

Yllia brought her hand up to rest under her chin. "But that makes no sense," she said, puzzled. "Teyrn Bryce was supposed to bring reinforcements to Ostagar –  _much needed_  reinforcements. Why would Loghain conspire to keep him from doing so? What would he have to gain from it?"

"We have Jowan's statement that Teyrn Loghain ordered him to poison Arl Eamon, do we not?" remind Leliana. "And Arl Eamon was  _also_  supposed to bring reinforcements to Ostagar. Perhaps winning the battle again the darkspawn was not Teyrn Loghain's first priority?"

"Except that not winning the battle meant endangering the King." Yllia looked at her companions, her frustration evident. " _That's_  what bothers me the most. I may have been locked away in the Circle for most of my life, but even I heard  _some_ things about the world beyond the tower. And one thing I remember hearing about,  _consistently,_ was how loyal Teyrn Loghain has always been to the royal family. King Maric was supposedly his best friend – their children even married.  _Why_  would he risk King Cailan by purposefully delaying reinforcements? Why would he risk  _Ferelden?_ "

Alistair snorted. " _Obviously_  he saw a chance to make a grab for power and decided to take it," he scoffed. "We were  _both_  there, Yllia. We were in the tower. We lit the beacon, and instead of doing what he was supposed to do and lead in the reinforcements, Loghain  _quit the field_.He abandoned Cailan. To  _die!_  How can you be skeptical about his having a hand in what happened at Redcliffe and Highever after what you saw with your  _own eyes?_ "

Zevran watched the tension appear in Yllia's shoulders, the way her eyes narrowed at Alistair's vehemence. This was not the first time she'd been the target of an outburst from the warrior, then, and from how she set her jaw it appeared she had little tolerance for it. The two of them appeared to have forgotten all about him; which was fine with him – for the moment, at least. It gave him some time to gather his thoughts and prepare for the next question once they remembered he existed.

It took Yllia a moment to respond; when she did, her voice was low, measured. "I'm not denying what we saw, Alistair," she said. "But what we saw is still only  _part_  of what happened. I'm only saying that it doesn't match with what we thought we knew about Teyrn Loghain, and we need to consider that we might not know the whole story."

"He sent an  _assassin_  after us!" Alistair said, red-faced as he swept his arm towards Zevran. "He  _poisoned_  Arl Eamon, who might  _still_ die if we don't find a way to save him! And what happened to Connor… you can't be saying that wasn't his doing!"

" _Alistair._ " She spoke sharply, causing the warrior to blink in the way that only the truly taken aback could. "We can debate this later, but this  _is not_  the time. We've got a slightly more important issue to deal with right now, don't you think?" She raised her eyebrows at him, then tilted her head in Zevran's direction.

When Alistair's gaze followed her gesture Zevran did his best to affect the most innocent look he could muster, as if he hadn't been enjoying the momentary distraction from his plight. It didn't surprise him in the least when Alistair scowled and turned his head to the side, his arms crossing over his broad chest. Whether it was in response to Yllia or to Zevran's expression the assassin couldn't say, but it achieved the same result. Yllia turned her attention back to Zevran.

"All right," she said, ice blue eyes once again focused on him. "So we've established that Loghain hired you, and for whatever reason, this Rendon Howe wanted Alistair targeted specifically. Whose orders are you  _really_  carrying out – Loghain or Howe's?"

An easier question than he'd expected. Zevran shrugged. "Technically, Rendon Howe was merely my contact; the contract was with Teyrn Loghain and Teyrn Loghain alone. I paid little attention to Howe's request, as if I managed to succeed in my primary orders his specification was automatically accounted for. I suppose it matters little either way – after all, I am the one currently restrained and  _entirely_  at your mercy." Was that a hint of a blush that he detected on her cheeks?  _How intriguing._  "All of that aside, however – to answer your earlier question regarding my loyalty, I was only contracted to perform a service. Beyond that I am not loyal to him, nor to his retainer."

The large mabari moved to sit beside his mistress, and Yllia placed her hand on top of his head, stroking the short, velvety fur. "And now that you've failed that service?"

"Well, that's between Loghain and the Crows…and between the Crows and myself."

"And between you and me?"

"Isn't that what we're establishing now?" Zevran flashed her a bright smile, the one that had never failed to get a response from his marks before, whether they be man or woman. Granted, they were usually more  _favorable_  responses than the exasperated look Yllia now directed at him, but well, what was that saying? Beggars could not be choosers? And he was, without shame, a beggar at the moment.

He let the smile slip away as Yllia continued with the interrogation. "When were you to see him next?"

"I wasn't. If I had succeeded I would have returned to Antiva and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results…if he didn't already know. If I had failed I would be dead." Zevran paused, then added in a quieter voice, "Or I should be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then."

" _If_  you had failed?" Yllia asked archly.

Another flash of smile, as cheerful as he could muster. "What can I say? I am an eternal optimist. Although," Zevran let out a laugh that was only half-forced, "the chances of succeeding at this point  _do_  seem a bit slim, don't they?" He sobered quickly when he saw the less-than-amused frown being directed at him now, as well as Leliana and Alistair's twin glares. "No, I don't suppose you'd find that funny, would you?"

"Not really, considering the fact that Alistair and I are both rather attached to living," Yllia replied. Her hand came to rest to rest under her chin again, the lightly curved knuckle of her index finger briefly touching her lower lip as she regarded him thoughtfully. She turned to face her companions. "Alistair, Leliana – can you two step out for a moment?"

Three pairs of startled eyes fixed on her. "What? You mean – leave? You here? Alone?" Alistair asked, incredulous.

Yllia met his eyes silently and waited.

Alistair shot a glare in Zevran's direction. "I'm not okay with this, Yllia. He already tried to kill us once."

"And failed rather spectacularly," Zevran offered. Perhaps he should have kept quiet since he didn't know why Yllia was sending away her companions, but well – he couldn't resist pressing the warrior's buttons. He had such  _interesting_  reactions.

Yllia kept her attention focused on Alistair. "I'm not asking you to pull up camp and head for Denerim without me," she said. "Just step outside. You can even stand right outside the flap if that makes you feel better." When Alistair still didn't look like he was going to relent, she snapped her fingers and Rhys immediately pushed his head underneath her hand. "And I'll have Rhys with me,  _plus_  the obvious."

Still nothing, and now Yllia was beginning to look exasperated. " _Alistair_. He's tied up and unarmed. I have an overprotective mabari shadowing my every move,  _and_  I don't need a weapon in order to be armed. It'll be  _fine._ "

Alistair started to speak, clearly intended to argue his point further. Leliana placed a placating hand on his arm. "We will stand right outside the tent, Alistair, and you can have your hand on your sword the entire time."

With both women now looking at him in challenge, Alistair finally sighed and lowered his head. "Fine," he relented. "We'll step out, but we're standing  _right there_. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Yllia stood with her hands resting on her hips, watching with what seemed to Zevran to be exaggerated patience. Even the mabari, standing beside to her with ears perked, seemed to be waiting for the two to leave. It piqued Zevran's curiosity – and made him wary. The warrior's presence was intimidating and there was more to the redhead than met the eye, but it was this petite, dark-haired elf who was the  _real_  threat.

Suddenly he was not particularly keen about the idea of being alone with her.

Once the tent flap fell into place, Yllia and her mabari looked at each other. She nodded, and the mabari promptly trotted over to the flap, lying down in front of it much in the same way that he had when been before his mistress had come into the tent. Yllia raised her hand, a yellowish glow at her fingertips as she traced what appeared to be a series of intricate symbols in the air.

The glow dimmed as she finished, and she dropped her hand back to her hip. "There," she said with satisfaction. She turned to look at him, and he quizzically tilted his head to the side. "Silencing spell. Entropic magic's not my forte, but we're taught the basics of each school before we find our strengths. No one will hear anything we actually say beyond this tent, even if they stand right outside it."

"Impressively devious," Zevran complimented. "I don't suppose this is the part where you confess to being utterly charmed by my good looks and roguish wit and announce your intent to release me while your companions are otherwise distracted?"

"Does that  _usually_  work, or are you just laying it on extra thick for my benefit?" Yllia asked, even though amusement sparkled in her pale blue eyes, adding a warmth to them that hadn't been present before. "To answer your question, though – no. No charming of any sort was involved in this – at least not successfully. But I  _might_  consider giving you a chance to win that freedom."

Zevran tilted his head to the side. "Oh?" She was right; he'd only been teasing. He hadn't honestly considered that she really might give thought to releasing him. Now that the suggestion had been made, however… "I believe I should listen, then."

"Smart man." Yllia walked over to him and knelt next to him, bringing herself down so that they were more on the same level. "I don't know much about the Antivan Crows, and I certainly don't know anything about you. I also don't think that the Crows will look too kindly on your spilling details of your mission to your targets, so I have to wonder - why tell us anything at all?"

Zevran let out a chuckle at the directness of the statement. There was a shrewd mind behind those eyes of ice, to be certain. "Why not?" he asked. "I wasn't paid for silence – I wasn't paid at all, in fact, though I understand the  _Crows_ were paid quite handsomely. There is nothing in my contract that states I need to throw myself on the sword for my employer."

"And what about the Crows?" Yllia asked, her expression intent. "Aren't you at least loyal to them?"

"Loyalty is an interesting concept." Zevran narrowed his eyes, gaze sharpening to become as intense as hers. "If we are in fact done with the interrogation, perhaps we can discuss it further."

Yllia inclined her head in consideration for half a beat, then nodded once. Slowly. "I'm listening."

"Well, here's the thing," Zevran began. "I failed to kill you, and so my life is now forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So…" He looked straight into her eyes and played his final hand. "Let me serve you, instead."

He had a strong suspicion that this was what Yllia Surana had been after the moment she'd dismissed her two companions from the tent, though she didn't immediately accept his offer. Points in her favor, as far as he was concerned. In the reverse, he wouldn't be so quick to trust himself, either.

"If I accept, can I expect the same amount of loyalty from you that you show to your former employer?" Yllia asked.

"I happen to be a very loyal person," Zevran immediately replied, taking care not to let his desperation show. It wouldn't do for her to realize precisely how much power she had over him right then. "Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not really a fault, is it? I mean, unless you're the sort who would do the same. In which case, I…don't come very well recommended, I suppose."

"And what's to stop you from finishing the job later?" Yllia asked. She glanced towards the closed tent flap; the silencing spell apparently worked both ways, because Zevran couldn't hear anything from the outside. The mabari had his ears pricked, and he was staring at Zevran unblinking. He had the sense that the hound was judging his answers as much as his mistress.

"To be completely honest," Zevran replied, "I was never given much of a choice when it came to joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. I think I've paid my worth back to them plus tenfold – the only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch. And even if I did kill you now, they might just kill me on principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you."

"Won't they come after you?"

He gave that a moment of thought before responding. "Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you." He flashed her another smile. "Not that you seem to need much help. And if not, well…it's not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?

"You'll find me quite useful, I believe," he added. "I am skillful in many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I also have a certain knowledge of how the more underground branches of society work, and could warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more…sophisticated…now that my attempts have failed. I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? No?"

Yllia let out a burst of laugher, and Zevran could feel the lingering tension diffuse with that sweet sound. It was hard to imagine that only a couple of hours earlier he had been locked in combat with this woman and her companions, certain that he was facing his death at her hands. He grinned in response. "So what shall it be? I'll even shine armor. You won't find a better deal, I promise."

"I don't know if I've ever met anyone  _quite_  like you, Zevran Arainai," Yllia said with another laugh, shaking her head. "All right. You've convinced me to give you a chance, at least. I've already got a Qunari warrior, a Chantry sister, a blood mage and a witch of the wilds in my entourage – an Antivan assassin seems like it might be a good fit."

"I shall endeavor not to disappoint," Zevran replied. "So now that we have covered that…I don't suppose you'd be willing to allow the blood to return to my hands?" He twisted himself to show his bound wrists for emphasis, giving her his best innocent-eyed look. She rolled her eyes, but nevertheless withdrew a small dagger from within her robes and sliced the ropes that bound his wrists, then his ankles. He sat up the moment he could, rubbing at his wrists to remove the numbness tingling beneath his skin. "Ah, much better."

Yllia stood extended a hand to him, and he grasped it firmly. Once on his feet he tightened his grip, preventing her from letting go. Her eyes immediately flew up to meet his. There was no fear in them.

"I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, Yllia Surana," Zevran said, "until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man without reservation. This, I swear." He released her hand and stepped back, bowing his head and bringing his arm to his chest in a salute.

Yllia smiled. "I accept your oath, Zevran Arainai," she said. "I can't guarantee that you won't regret it, but I  _can_  promise that your life is about to get a lot more interesting."

A slow smile spread across his own face, eyes dancing with keen interest. "Of that, I have no doubt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is; at long last, I've finally gotten the AO3 version of this story caught up to the FF.net version. As I'm typing this, I'm also realizing that somehow I failed to mention that (oops) this was a mirrored story and there was actually a more up to date version of it on another website. Sorry about that, for anyone who might have preferred to read it over there instead of waiting for my incredibly slow updates here! Not...that my updates over there were any faster. For the period of time that I was updating here, I was actually struggling with finding time to write the next chapters to post over there. So in reality, I suppose everyone reading this version was seeing faster updates? Is that how this works? 
> 
> That said, from here on out both AO3 and FF.net will be updated simultaneously with the exact same chapters, so people can read their preference. I also have a tumblr in which I wil (attempt) to make note of when new chapters are up - you can find that at http://aynslesa.tumblr.com. I'm still getting used to using a tumblr (I'm so behind on the times) but hey, there it is. :D 
> 
> I can't guarantee when the next chapter will be out, but rest assured that I am always working on this story - it's just kind of a beast to write. The more interest I see in the next chapter though, and the faster I might get it done. ::innocent look:: But seriously, thank you very much for reading Fatum - there's a *lot* to this story in my head, and I can't wait to share it as much as I can. - Ayns


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